Queen of the South

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “Today is the birthday of Czar Nicholas,” Yasikov said abruptly, the bottle of Smirnoff two-thirds empty, turning his head as though the specter of the young White Army officer were about to appear down at the end of the sea walk, among the Rolls-Royces and Jaguars and enormous yachts. Then he pensively raised his glass of vodka, holding it up to the light, and he held it aloft until Teresa clinked her glass against it, and then they both drank, looking into each other’s eyes. And although Yasikov smiled self-mockingly, Teresa, who knew almost nothing about the czar, much less about the officer grandfather shot by a firing squad in Manchuria, realized that despite the Russian’s grimace, he had just performed a serious and deeply felt ritual that she had been privileged to witness, and that her instinct to clink her glass against his had been right, because it brought her closer to the heart of a dangerous and necessary man.

  Yasikov filled the glasses again. “The czar’s birthday,” he repeated. “Yes. And for almost a hundred years, even when that date was forgotten and that word was forbidden in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the paradise of the proletariat, my grandmother and my parents and later I myself would drink a toast to him at home. Yes. To his memory and the memory of Lieutenant Yasikov of the Nikolaiev Cavalry Regiment. I still do. Yes. As you see. Wherever I am. Without opening my mouth. Even once during the eleven months that I spent rotting as a soldier. In Afghanistan.” Then he poured more vodka, until the bottle was empty, and it occurred to Teresa that every human being has a hidden story, and that if you were quiet enough and patient enough you could finally hear it. And that that was good, a lesson that was important to learn. A lesson that was useful, above all.

  The Italians, Yasikov had said. Teresa discussed it the following day with Patty. “He says the Italians want a meeting. They need reliable transportation for their coke, and he thinks our infrastructure can help them. They’re happy with the hashish shipments and want to raise the stakes. It’s too far a reach for the old Gallego amos do fume. They’ve got other connections, plus they’re under surveillance by the police. So they’ve sounded out Oleg to see if we’re willing to take it on. To open a big route for them through the south, that’ll cover the Mediterranean.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “There’ll be no turning back. If we take on this job, we’re committed, we have to stay with it. And that means more investment. It makes things more complicated. And more risky.”

  They were in Jerez, having tapas—shrimp and tortilla española—and drinking Tío Pepe at the Carmela bar, at a table under the old arch. It was a Saturday morning, and the glaring sun illuminated the people strolling through the Plaza del Arenal—older couples dressed for the aperitivo hour, younger couples with children, groups around the doors of taverns or sitting around wine barrels set out in the plaza as tables. The two women had come to visit a winery that was up for sale by the Fernández de Sotos—a large building with walls painted red ocher and white, spacious patios surrounded by arches and grilled windows, and vast cool wine cellars full of oak barrels with their contents identified in chalk. The winery was in bankruptcy; it belonged to a family Patty had known all her life, ruined like others of Patty’s class by expensive tastes, purebred horses, and a generation absolutely allergic to business: two sons who were playboys and partiers and who appeared from time to time in the police blotter of the newspapers, for corruption of minors.

  The investment was recommended by Teo Aljarafe: “We’ll keep the land with the limestone soil over by Sanlúcar and the old building in Jerez, and on the lot in the city we’ll build apartments. The more respectable businesses we have, the better, and a bodega with a name and pedigree has real cachet.” Patty had laughed about that “cachet” they were buying. “My family’s name and pedigree never made me the slightest bit respectable,” she said. But she did think the purchase was a good idea.

  So the two of them went to Jerez, Teresa dressed elegantly for the occasion, jacket and gray skirt with black heels, her hair parted down the middle and pulled back in a chignon, two silver hoops at her ears. She should always wear as little jewelry as possible, Patty had suggested, and no costume jewelry, only the real thing. A simple bracelet once in a while, or that semanario of hers. A good chain around her neck—a chain was better than a necklace, but if she had to wear a necklace it should be good: coral, amber, pearls. . . . It’s like art on your walls; better to have a good lithograph or antique print than a bad oil.

  Patty and Teresa were accompanied by an obsequious administrator decked out at eleven in the morning as though he’d just come from high mass during Holy Week in Seville. They visited the bodega, noted the high ceilings, stylized columns, shadowy interiors; the silence reminded Teresa of Mexican churches built by the conquistadors. It was strange, she thought, how some old places in Spain gave her the sense that she was coming face to face with something already familiar to her. As though the architecture, the customs, the feeling of place were the echoes of things she thought belonged only to her own land. I’ve been here before, she would think as she turned a corner, or walked down a street, or stood before the portico of a mansion or a church. Híjole. Something in me has been this way before, and it explains part of what I am.

  “If we just do transportation for the Italians, nothing will change,” Patty said. “The guy that gets caught does the time. And that guy doesn’t know anything. The chain stops there—no owners, no names. I don’t see the risk.”

  She was finishing the last bites of tortilla, sitting silhouetted against the illuminated end of the arch; the light gilded her hair, and she had lowered her voice as she spoke.

  Teresa lit a Bisonte. “I’m not talking about that kind of risk,” she replied.

  Yasikov had been very clear: “I don’t want to deceive you, Tesa,” he had said in Puerto Banús. “The Camorra, the Mafia, and the ’Ndrangheta can be bad people. There’s a lot to win with them. If everything goes well. But if something goes wrong, there’s a lot to lose. And on the other side, you’ve got the Colombians. Yes. Who are no nuns, either. The positive part is that the Italians work with the boys from Cali, who are not as violent as those lunatics in Medellín, Pablo Escobar and that gang of psychopaths of his. But if you go into this, it’ll be forever. You cannot get off a moving train. No. Trains are good if there are customers in them. Bad if there are enemies. Have you ever seen From Russia with Love? . . . The bad guy that confronted James Bond on the train was Russian. And that is not a warning. No. Just advice. Yes. Friends are friends until . . .” He was about to finish the sentence, when Teresa finished it for him. “Until they aren’t anymore,” she said. And smiled. Yasikov looked at her, suddenly serious.

  “You are a very clever woman, Tesa,” he then said, after not speaking for several seconds. “You learn quickly, about everything and everybody. You will survive.”

  “What about Yasikov?” Patty asked now. “He’s not in?”

  “He’s smart, and prudent.” Teresa was watching people pass in front of the archway. “As we say in Sinaloa, he’s got a plan, but he needs to fill that straight flush. He wants in, but he doesn’t want to be the first one in. If we’re in, he’ll hitch a ride. With us taking care of the transportation, he can guarantee himself a reliable supply for his people, and one that’s super-controlled. But first he wants to check out the system. The Italians give him the chance to test the waters with minimum risk. If everything works out, he’ll come in. And if not, he’ll just go on with what he’s got now. He doesn’t want to compromise his position here.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “Depends. If we do it right, it’s a shitload of money.”

  Patty’s legs were crossed: Chanel skirt, beige heels. She was swinging one foot as though following the rhythm of a song, one Teresa couldn’t hear.

  “All right, then. You’re the business brains.” Patty tilted her head to one side—all those wrinkles around her eyes. “Which is why it’s so comfortable to work with you.”


  “I told you there are risks. We can lose everything—including our lives. Both of us.”

  Patty’s laughter made the waitress turn to look at them.

  “I’ve lost everything before. So you decide. You’re my girl.”

  She was still looking at her in that way. Teresa said nothing. She picked up her glass of sherry and brought it to her lips. With the taste of the tobacco in her mouth, the wine was bitter.

  “Have you told Teo?” Patty asked.

  “Not yet. But he’s coming to Jerez this afternoon. He’ll have to be told, of course.”

  Patty opened her purse to pay the check. She pulled out a thick wad of bills—very indiscreetly—and some fell to the ground. She leaned over to pick them up.

  “Of course,” she said.

  There was something in what she and Yasikov had talked about in Puerto Banús that Teresa didn’t tell Patty. Something that forced her to look around with concealed suspiciousness. That kept her lucid and alert, that complicated her thoughts on those gray dawns that still found her lying wide awake. “There are rumors,” the Russian had said. “Yes. Things. Someone told me that there is interest in you in Mexico. For some reason”—he studied her as he said this—“you have aroused the attention of your countrymen. Or their memory. They ask whether you are the same Teresa Mendoza that left Culiacán four or five years ago. . . . Are you?” “Keep talking,” Teresa said.

  Yasikov shrugged. “I know very little more. Just that they’re asking questions about you. A friend of a friend. Yes. They sent someone to find out what you’re up to these days, and whether it’s true that you’re moving up in the business. That in addition to hashish you may be involved in cocaine. Apparently in your country there are people who are worried that the Colombians, since your countrymen have closed the door to the United States to them, may turn up here. Yes. And they cannot like the fact that a Mexican girl, which is also quite a coincidence, may be in the middle. No. Especially if they know this girl. From before. So be careful, Tesa. In this business, having a past is neither good nor bad, so long as you don’t attract attention. And things are going too well for you for you not to attract attention. Your past, that past you never talk to me about, is none of my affair. Nyet. But if you left unpaid bills, there’s always the possibility that somebody may want to collect.”

  Long before, in Sinaloa, Güero Dávila had taken her flying. It was the first time for her. Güero parked the Bronco so that its headlights lit the yellow-roofed airport building, and after greeting the soldiers standing guard along the runway covered with small planes, they took off just at dawn, to see the sun come up over the mountains. Teresa remembered Güero beside her in the cabin of the Cessna, the sunlight reflecting off the green lenses of his Ray-Bans, his hands on the controls, the purring of the engine, the image of St. Malverde hanging from the dashboard—God bless my journey and allow my return—and the Sierra Madre shimmering like mother-of-pearl, with golden glints off the water in the rivers and lakes, the fields with their green smears of marijuana, the fertile plains, and off in the distance, the ocean. That early morning, seen from up in the sky, her eyes wide open in surprise, the world seemed clean and beautiful to Teresa.

  She thought about that now, in a room in the Hotel Jerez, in the dark, with only the glow from the gardens and the pool backlighting the curtains at the window. Teo Aljarafe had gone, and the voice of José Alfredo was emerging from the stereo perched next to the television set and VCR. I’m in the corner of a cantina, he was singing. Listening to a song that I requested. Güero had told her that José Alfredo Jiménez had died drunk, composing his last songs in cantinas, the lyrics written down by friends because José Alfredo couldn’t even hold a pencil anymore. “Your Memory and I,” this one was called. And it certainly sounded like it was one of the last.

  What had been bound to happen happened. Teo arrived at midafternoon for the closing on the Fernández de Soto bodega. Then they had a drink to celebrate. One, and then several. Then the three of them, Teresa, Patty, and Teo, walked through the old part of Jerez with its ancient palaces and churches, its streets filled with tascas and bars. And as they sat at a bar, when Teo leaned over to light the cigarette she had just put to her lips, Teresa felt his eyes on her. How long has it been, she asked herself. How long since . . . She liked his Spanish aquiline profile, the dark, secure hands, that smile stripped of all meaning and commitment. Patty smiled, too, but differently, as though from a distance. Resigned. Fatalistic. And just as Teresa was bringing her face down to the man’s hands, which were cradling the flame in the hollow of his palm, she heard Patty say: I’ve gotta go, oh gosh, I just remembered something. See you guys later.

  Teresa had turned to say, No, wait, I’m going with you, don’t leave me here, but Patty was already gone, without looking back, her purse slung over her shoulder. So Teresa sat there watching her go while she felt Teo’s eyes on her again. And at that, she wondered whether Patty and he had talked this over. What might they have said? What would they say afterward? But no—the thought stung like a whip. No way—no mixing business with pleasure. I can’t afford that kind of luxury. I’m leaving, too. Yet something in the middle of her body, in her womb, forced her to stay: a strong, dense impulse composed of weariness, loneliness, expectation, lack of will. She wanted to rest. Feel a man’s skin, his fingers on her body, his mouth against her own. Put aside all this initiative for a while and entrust herself to someone who would act for her. Think for her. Then she recalled the torn photograph she always carried in her wallet, in her purse. The wet-behind-the-ears girl with the big eyes, with a male arm over her shoulders—ignorant of almost everything, looking out at a world that resembled the one she’d seen from the cabin of a Cessna on a pearl-colored morning. She turned, finally, slowly, deliberately. And as she did so, she thought, Pinches hombres cabrones, always so fucking smart, but they almost never think. She was absolutely certain that sooner or later, one of them, or both, would pay for what was about to happen.

  There she was now, alone. Listening to José Alfredo. It had all happened very predictably and quietly, without too many words or unnecessary gestures. As antiseptic as the smile on the face of this experienced, skilled, and attentive Teo. Satisfactory in many ways. And suddenly, almost at the end of the several endings that he brought her to, Teresa’s calm mind found itself once again looking at itself—looking at her—like so many other times before: naked, sated at last, her tousled hair in her face, serene after the excitement, desire, and pleasure, knowing that being possessed by others, or abandoning herself to them, had all ended at the León Rock. And she saw herself thinking about Patty, the way she’d shivered when Teresa kissed her on the mouth in their cell in prison, the way she’d watched Teresa while Teo lit her cigarette in the bar. And she told herself that maybe what Patty wanted was precisely that: to push her toward herself. Toward that image in the mirrors with its lucid gaze—the image that never allowed itself to be deceived.

  After Teo left, she’d gone into the shower, the water very, very hot, the steam fogging up the mirror, and she’d scrubbed her skin with soap—slowly, carefully—before dressing and going out for a walk, alone. She wandered through the city until in a narrow street with grilled windows she heard, in surprise and wonder, a song from Mexico. I want my life to end as I sit over a glass of wine. That’s impossible, she said to herself. That can’t be happening here, now. So she raised her eyes and saw the sign above the door: “El Mariachi—Cantina Mexicana.” And at that she laughed almost out loud, because she realized that life and fate play subtle games that sometimes turn out to be obvious. Chale. She pushed the swinging door open and entered an authentic cantina—bottles of tequila behind the bar, a pudgy young waiter serving Corona and Pacífico beers to the people at the tables, and a CD by José Alfredo on the stereo. She ordered a Pacífico just so she could touch its yellow label, and she raised the bottle to her lips, sipped just enough to savor the taste that brought back so many memories, and then ordered a Herr
adura Reposado, which was served to her in the authentic caballito.

  Now José Alfredo was saying, Why did you come to me seeking compassion, when you know that I’m writing my last song. Teresa felt an intense wave of happiness wash over her, a feeling so fierce that she thought she might almost faint. And she ordered another tequila, and then another—the waiter had recognized her accent and smiled pleasantly. When he was in cantinas, another song began, he felt no pain or grief. She pulled a wad of bills out of her purse and told the waiter to bring her an unopened bottle of tequila, and that she’d also buy that CD that was playing. “I can’t sell it,” the young man said, surprised. So she pulled out more money, and then more, covering the bar as the astonished waiter looked on. Finally he brought her the bottle and the two double CDs by José Alfredo, four CDs with a hundred songs. I can buy anything, she thought absurdly—or not so absurdly, after all—when she left the cantina with her treasures, not caring that people might see her carrying the bottle. She walked to the taxi stand—she could feel the street moving strangely under her feet—and returned to her hotel.

  And there she still was, with the bottle almost half empty, accompanying the recorded lyrics with words of her own. Listening to a song that I requested. They’re serving me my tequila now. And my thoughts journey to you. The room was in dusky light from the lamps in the garden and around the pool: rumpled sheets; Teresa’s hands as she smoked basucos, picked up the glass and the bottle on the night table. Who hasn’t known the betrayal of a love affair gone wrong? Who hasn’t gone into a cantina for a tequila and a song? And I wonder just who I am now, José Alfredo was singing, as Teresa silently moved her lips.