by Sarah Cortez
Cabs are very expensive, my aunt said.
I could see I didn't have a choice.
"Y ella es muy Bonita. Parece india."
"Yeah. Well, I got to get ready first."
It's good to make new friends, my aunt said. You need someone to take care of you, she said.
"I have a friend waiting for me in San Juan."
Not that kind of friend, my aunt said.
I took my sweet time with my hair, getting it just the way I like it, and trimmed my beard to make sure it was the same thinness around my jaw. It's hard to get it right sometimes. Then I splashed on some cologne and I was good to go.
When I came out, Itaba was sitting in the patio with a big purse and that gift bag.
"Tantas gracias por hacer esto," she said, standing up and smiling this big smile at me. I walked past her and went to the car.
When we got into the little vehicle, I noticed that she smelled good, not sweet like perfume, but like trees, like soil, like wood. For some reason it made me hungry.
"Tu huele bien," I said.
At first she looked at me like I'd said something nasty. Then she smiled and thanked me. So I played it off, stayed quiet.
We drove like that for five minutes before she started talking.
"What do you do?" she asked.
"So you speak English?"
"Of course," she said. "Look, I promise not to torture you anymore with my Spanish and you do not have to torture me anymore with yours." She gave me that smile again, full of brilliant white teeth. I wondered if she bleached them.
"Funny lady. Very funny."
"So what do you do?"
"You mean for a living? This and that."
"Is that what you tell everybody?"
I could've told her I had gotten out of prison awhile ago and couldn't find anyone who wanted to hire me. Not that I'm ashamed of that. I just didn't think it was her business. "I do fine. I have money."
"So why are you going to San Juan? To gamble?"
"I like to play cards, you know what I mean? And I'm meeting a friend."
"A lady friend?"
"The best kind."
"I'm sure you'll have a good time."
We were quiet for a little bit, then she said, "Listen, negrito, we first have to make a stop in Utuado."
"What? That's out of my way. It'll take hours to get there."
"It will take all day with the way you drive."
"Fine." I pulled the car sharply to the side of the road. "Take the wheel."
She got behind the driver's seat and slammed on the gas. We burned rubber. I put my seat belt on.
I looked at her dark, caramel fingers on the wheel. No ring.
My cell phone beeped. It was Julie-I had forgotten all about calling her. I looked at Itaba, then took the call.
I tried to whisper. "Nothing's wrong. No one's here," I said, but when she complained that she couldn t hear me I had to speak up. "Yeah. Hey. How are you? What time's your flight get in? ... That's ridiculous. This is a just a tropical storm ... Hey, I know you're nervous, but we're going to have a terrific time ... C'mon, you've always been my good-luck charm ... Hey, that's not going to happen. He's not going to find out ... Call me when you know the new arrival time. Yeah. It'll be great. Don't worry."
Itaba kept her eyes on the road and said nothing. I stared out the window. The sky was dark, the clouds looked ready to explode with rain. The palm trees were bowing in the wind. I watched the dark road and-this is funny-I realized I was keeping an eye out for more dead dogs.
Itaba parked the car on the side of the road. We were somewhere near Utuado.
"What the hell is this?" I said.
"We're going to the Taino village at Caguana Park."
All I saw were trees. "This doesn't look like anything."
"We're taking the back way."
"Is the front way closed?"
"Do you know anything about the Tainos?"
"The Indians? Oops. Sorry. Native Americans."
She raised her eyebrows. "Tainos were the indigenous people of Boriken, the real name of Puerto Rico. Don't you know anything about your history?"
"I was born and schooled in the Bronx, lady."
"The Tainos were the first people that Columbus met. In a few hundred years most of them were wiped out of existence."
"I heard they all died. Measles and shit. And stuff, I mean. See, I'm not as stupid as I look."
"Smallpox. But no, some survived. And there are many of us who want to reclaim what is ours. Negrito, I need your help. And for your help I will give you a reward."
I looked at her lips, tried to imagine what she would look like when she was coming. If she was a screamer.
"No me mires asi. I can give you money, so you can show your friend more of a good time in San Juan."
"How much?"
"A friend was supposed to drive me but he got delayed. I was going to give him a thousand dollars. I will give you two thousand because I have inconvenienced you."
I pursed my lips. "That's sweet money for a cab ride. But I want to know what this is about."
"Look in the bag," she said.
I took the gift bag from the back. There was something wrapped in plastic and then bubble wrap. I began to unwrap it.
"Be careful!" she snapped, raising her voice.
The stone had three points and was the size of my fist. One point had large eyes and teeth bared like a mad dog.
"You probably don't recognize it. It's a stone carving of Yocahu, a Taino deity."
"Looks like an animal. Check out its fucking teeth."
"Yocahu was the god of good, with no beginning and no end. This was discovered in an excavation at Jacana, near Ponce. I've been working there. I'm an archaeologist. Thank you for asking. The Army Corps of Engineers was clearing land in order to build a dam. They uncovered some of the most important archaeological treasures ever found in Puerto Rico. This one piece is priceless."
"Okay," I said. It was still ugly.
"An American buyer is waiting for me in a hotel in San Juan. But he wants to make sure it comes with a certificate of authenticity. That's why we're here."
"So you stole this?" I waved the stone.
"Please be careful with that."
"It's a rock."
"It's a cemi. It's sacred. The Neo-Taino movement needs money to buy back land. To take back what is ours. This carving is a great sacrifice but it will be worth it."
"And what's a Neo-Taino?"
"According to DNA testing, more than half of Puerto Ricans still have Taino blood in their veins."
"That doesn't make them Indians. They're selling quenepas on the side of the road, not doing rain dances."
She rolled her beautiful hazel eyes. "Listen, the buyer will pay one million dollars for this cemi."
"For this?" I whistled. "So, why not just rent a car? Why did you need me? Or was it just an excuse to get to know me better?"
"Ay, negrito. I didn't want to do this alone. Don't you understand?" she said and got out of the car.
She led me through the trees. The soil was wet and squished under my feet. We came to a wooden fence. With her boots, she began to kick it down.
"Let me do that," I said. With a few kicks, I opened a space big enough for an SUV.
"You didn't have to destroy it."
"I don't know my own strength," I said.
We came out from the trees and into a wide clearing. On one side there were several rectangular spaces of cleared dirt. Around it were stone carvings, one foot to five feet high, with faces and figures in white. Animals, people, and people that looked like animals.
"That is a batey court," she said, "where the warriors would play in order to settle disputes between different villages. We were wise and peaceful."
"What did they play? Tennis?"
We circled the courts. Light rain began to fall. "There's that tropical storm," I said.
"Have you heard the story of Juracan, who was there
at the creation of the world?"
"Nope."
"He was the brother of Yucahu and the son of Atabey, and he was created from elements in the air and therefore without a father."
"Like me."
"Juracan became envious of Yucahu when he saw his brother create the race of humanity, and so he tried to destroy his brother's creations. He became known as the god of strong winds-we get the word hurricane from his name. And the Tainos came to fear and revere him. When the hurricanes blew, they knew they had displeased Juracan."
"Then someone must've pissed him off today."
In the distance we could see a few straw huts. Cone roofs, small doorways. She led me toward what looked like an office building, and we soon passed a hut. She seemed to see something and ran toward it.
The way she gasped-I could tell something was wrong. Then I saw it. A man lay on his back on the ground. His face was stuck in a grin of pain. A line of blood led from a small hole in the man's bright, white guayabera to a black-red pool.
"It's Dr. Arroyo," she said. "He was supposed to give me the certificate."
I was about to bend down to enter the hut when I heard something moving in the grass behind the body. I turned. Somebody hit me.
I was kissing dirt. I heard talking, but it wasn't English. Some of the words were like Spanish. It was a strange, rhythmic dialect. Like a drumbeat almost.
I tried to move. My hands were tied. I glanced up and saw the flat-headed man from the wedding coming toward me with a big stick. It looked like a giant pilon. In his other hand something was cupped. The man put the hand on my face, covering my nose and mouth. He said something in that strange language. There was a rotten-smelling powder in the man's hand. I tried to shake loose but I couldn't help inhaling the powder. I opened my mouth to breathe and more went in. It hit me like another smack to the back of my head. I began to vomit, all the eggs, platanos, mango slices, and buttered bread. He came at me with a knife in his hands and cut the rope around my wrists. I tried to move, but my body didn't listen.
I lay there for a thousand years. The sky got brighter and brighter, then dimmed like a flame going out. At the edge of my face tiny insects crawled up and onto my eyes and under my eyelids. I heard the sound of coquis, first low and quiet, then it grew and grew until I thought my eardrums would bleed. I saw a dark beach, black water, black sky. The waves jumped onto the shore like the claws of a giant animal, tearing at the sand, reaching for me. There was a sound like a gunshot, and I tried to shut my eyes, and then I thought I was crying. I looked up and saw a dog licking my face. Small, hairless. It moved its mouth like it was barking but no sound came out. My face felt so wet I thought the dog was drooling all over me, then I realized it was raining.
There was no dog. I was on the ground outside of the hut. My head throbbed.
Soon I heard sirens.
I tried to get up and quickly realized there was a gun in my hand. I saw the body, still lying there. Poor bastard, but there was nothing I could do.
"Fuck," I said.
The dark sky was circling, moving fast. Set up. The gun in my hand-it was a setup.
"Fuck," I said.
I pushed myself up, felt nauseous.
I stood, threw the gun away, then I said, "Stupid. Stupid." I went to pick it up again, fell down, got up again, began running.
I saw the batey courts and tried to remember where we had come in. I fell. I heard the sirens approaching. I got up and ran toward where I thought we had come through the trees.
I pushed back through the trees, saw the big space in the fence, tripped, got up, got to my car. I opened the door, sat down, wiped the powder off my face, checked the back of my head. There was a little blood.
I went to start the car. "Keys," I said. Itaba had the keys. "Fucking fuck fuck fuck."
I grabbed my duffel bag and wobbled away from the car. How far was I from San Juan? Blackjack, I thought. Julie. Blackjack. The cops. I had to get out of there.
I walked five feet, got down on my knees, and felt the hard, wet, cold road, considered laying down, considered throwing up again. Then a vehicle stopped in front of me.
There was a big canoe on the back of the guy's truck. He was an old man, with white, kinky hair, and his skin was as dark as an overripe banana.
"Necesita ayuda?" the man asked.
"I need to go to San Juan," I said. My voice sounded thick, garbled.
"Venga. Entre."
I got in the truck. I thought I looked normal but I was worried that I looked slow, drunk. The man asked if I was okay.
"I need to get to San Juan."
In a thick accent, the man said, "You look bad. You better see a doctor."
"I'll be all right."
There was a big crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. The radio played old tunes, singers picking at a cuatro. The saddest music ever, the kind of music to slice your wrists to. One song after another.
We drove on, and I concentrated on the blacktop and the highway signs, mile after mile. I saw two more dead dogs, ripped open, lying there like pieces of meat on the road. I had the kind of aching hangover that makes you want to split your own head open and take your brain out to rinse it in cold, clear water. My mouth didn't feel like it belonged to me. My head was numb, throbbed.
All of sudden I said, "You ever heard of the Taino Indians? The Tainos?"
"Si, los Tainos. A long time ago. In school," the man replied.
"You think you have Taino blood? You think you're a Taino?"
The man laughed, kept his eyes on the road. "My abuela was. At least she said so. Who knows? I respect the history. I respect where I come from. Pero soy lo que soy ahora, en este momento. Puertorriqueno, to sabes? Boricua."
"Uh huh," I said, although I didn't understand. I felt like sleeping but somehow knew it was important not to.
Mile after mile of blacktop went by. The sky grew darker. Rain started to pelt the windshield.
"My name is Papo," I offered.
"Angel Luis," the man said and stuck out his hand. We shook and he kept on driving.
When he dropped me off at my hotel on the Condado tourist strip, Angel Luis warned me about the hurricane. "Storm is coming," he said. "Dios to bendiga."
I waddled with my duffel bag toward the hotel. I was tired all the way to my balls. I was just about to walk in when I saw these two men through the glass doors. Talking to the front desk lady. Plainclothes cops look the same wherever you go. Bad suits, lots of attitude. There was no way they could be after me already. I mean, they could trace me through the rental car, but not that fast.
Still.
I turned around and walked a couple blocks to a cash machine, got out my last five hundred, then headed to a little hotel outside of the Condado.
It was a small room with smelly blankets. One chair, one desk, an AC that rattled. I pulled the blanket off the bed, folded it neatly. Then I sat down, opened my flask, took a shot. It hit my stomach like a bull-I ran to the bathroom to puke. I got some soda, mixed it with another shot. It stayed down, but not for long.
I laid on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Mosquitoes had arrived from somewhere and were biting me.
Back at the other hotel, there were six dozen roses in vases waiting. A box of candy. Champagne. I had called ahead to prepare everything for my night with Julie. All on credit.
Then I remembered to check my cell phone.
There were two messages, both from Julie. "Papo, where the hell are you? Call!" The second: "I don't know, Papo. The flights are all being delayed. This must be a sign. I don't think I can do this. He's your best friend and it's not right for you to do this either. Goodbye, Papo."
"Fuck," I said.
I turned facedown on the bed and thought of Julie's fine perfect-handful breasts and her pale freckled skin and I woke up twenty hours later.
It was dark outside, and rain hit against the sliding door of the balcony. I took a hot shower, did my hair and beard, put on a jacket, put on cologne.
I smoked at the table. The curtains were pulled back and I watched the rain beat at the glass, a million tiny liquid bullets trying to get in.
I had the gun on the table. I knew I should ditch it but it made me feel safer to keep it. I thought about finding Itaba and the man with the flat head. But San Juan was a big town.
Hell, I was here to have fun, to do some gambling. I would cope with whatever hand I was dealt. Why not live it up until the cops found me?
I headed for the casino at the Caribe Hilton-the rain moved in thick, slow strokes across the streets, palm trees were flopping about like they were dancing the salsa-and went inside and warmed up with the slot machines. I ordered a Jack and Coke, but only sipped at it. After $200, I went to the blackjack table. I played without caring, losing deal after deal. This gay couple laughed and joked with the dealer, and I felt like a fourth wheel.
"Lady Luck is not with me tonight," I said to no one but myself.
I turned to order water and that's when I saw her. Straight back, head held high, firm ass in a tight red dress, Itaba walked past the slot machines. Gift bag in hand.
"Lady Luck." I cashed out and followed her.
Itaba was in a ground-floor suite outside, past the pool. There was tape on all the windows, for the hurricane. When she opened the door, I moved. I pushed her into the room, pulled out my gun, and aimed it at her.
"Bruto," she said.
She was on the floor and her wet skirt was up around her waist. Her thighs were smooth, copper.
"Don't even think about it," she said.
"I wasn't," I replied, and then she kicked me hard in the shin. "Fuck," I said.
"I know men."
I smirked at her. "Sure you do. You led me to that park and left me to hang out for the cops."
"That was not my idea."
"The guy with the weird head?"
"Yes. Kaonabo. It was his idea."
"Ka-nabo?"
"He's my husband."
"No shit," I said and went to close the blinds and the curtains on the windows. I kept my eye and the gun on her the whole time. "So what's up with his forehead anyway?"
"The Tainos believed that a flat forehead was a sign of beauty. Taino mothers carried their babies on their back on a board secured to the baby's forehead to make it that way. His real name is Pedro. He is very serious about the Neo-Taino cause.
