by Tom Epperson
“A charismatic sociopath. I know the type.”
“We talked all through the night. For fourteen hours straight. And I remember the next day when I was being driven out of the mountains, I was glad I was wearing a blindfold, because it meant no one could see I was crying.”
“Why were you crying?”
“Because I was so happy. Because I knew I’d gotten what I came for.”
“So did the editor quit and hire you to be the editor?”
“No, I never gave him the chance. I took my story to a bigger paper, and they hired me.”
“You know, I remember that interview now. It was a big deal at the time.”
“It’s still the biggest story I’ve ever done. I guess I’ve been trying to top it ever since.”
They’ve reached a narrow parking lot jammed in between two crumbling brick buildings.
“I’m parked here,” says Roberto.
He turns to Matallana. They consider each other for a moment.
“Have a good trip to Saint Lucia,” he says.
“Thanks. Good luck with your investigation. And if I can help in any way, just let me know.”
“I will.”
“Well—good-bye, lieutenant.”
Roberto shakes hands with him.
“Good-bye, Roberto.”
Roberto walks into the parking lot. The attendant is a bent old man with a yellowish cataract in one eye; his other eye is watching Roberto keenly, as if he looks to him like a man up to no good.
“Roberto?”
Roberto turns around. Lieutenant Matallana is standing at the edge of the parking lot. He’s smiling, and the sun’s glinting off his glasses.
“I think we’re going to get these bastards! I really do!”
* * *
Roberto gets lost getting out of downtown. It happens in one of those torn-up areas where a street is being widened to add a lane to accommodate the big stupid blue buses. Dump trucks rumble past and hard-hatted workers wield yammering jackhammers. Signs with arrows redirect traffic onto a rough dirt road defined by flimsy sheets of plywood and orange traffic cones. Roberto’s Kia and some other cars slowly bump along for a bit, but then it begins to get confusing. Some of the cones and plywood sheets have fallen or been knocked over. Now he sees other cones straggling off in a different direction, along with a single sign with an arrow on it, and so he goes that way.
It’s not long before the road, or what he took to be the road, peters out into a wasteland of weeds and bushes. He comes to a stop. He doesn’t see any other cars around. A warm wind is whipping up dust. A pair of vultures rip at the carcass of a dog. And then Roberto sees shambling shapes approaching, five or six of them, from different directions, and he realizes he’s about to be robbed.
They’re ragged, wild-eyed, high on basuco. They’re carrying crude weapons. A rusty machete. A tire iron. A board with nails sticking out the end of it. The one closest to Roberto is lugging a heavy rock in both hands. His lips are flecked with foam. If it were merely a matter of being robbed Roberto would just hand over his money but there is too much madness in all their eyes, he fears he’s about to be beaten or even killed. The guy raises the rock over his head with the intention of smashing Roberto’s windshield. He jams the gas pedal and the car lunges forward as the rock bangs off his roof. The guy with the tire iron has to jump out of his way. He shifts gears and blasts through a bush. He starts to circle back toward the road but doesn’t see the shallow ditch filled with rubbish till he’s right on top of it. He hits his brakes and skids into it. The guy with the machete brandishes it and runs toward Roberto as his tires spin in the dirt and he sees a brief image of himself dead in the ditch amid tin cans and old condoms and crumpled paper and rotting rats and then the tires gain traction. His car lurches up and out, and he heads back the way he came.
He looks in his rearview mirror. The disappointed basuqueros are watching him go. They stand motionless and wraith-like in the blowing dust.
* * *
“Gilberto Barco,” says Roberto’s father. “He’s the top pulmonologist in the country, he wrote a whole book about asthma. I know him quite well, we play tennis together. If I can keep the ball away from his forehand, I have a chance. His forehand is like lightning. I’ll put in a call to him so your friend won’t have to wait for an appointment.”
“That would be great, Dad. I’ll find out when a good time would be and then I’ll get back to you. Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime, Roberto. What time is our lunch tomorrow?”
“One thirty at Osaka?”
“I’ll see you at one thirty.”
Roberto calls Lieutenant Matallana and gets his voice mail. He leaves a message saying it’s nothing urgent but would he please call when he has a moment.
He puts the phone down. Glances around the room. Still a lot of packing to do and a great resistance on his part to doing it. He looks at the box of photos on the floor, where he sat with his father’s wife. He hasn’t really had a chance to mull over what happened and didn’t happen this morning.
Maybe Clara was right and he was a fool not to have fucked her. It’s not every day that a beautiful girl like that throws herself at him. And him ridiculously fighting her off like some virtuous old virgin. It would have been a perfect time for something like that to happen, with him leaving the country, for years perhaps. No awkward meetings with her with his father or Caroline there, no temptation to keep it going. Just an hour or two of fun and pleasure, as Clara said, and then it would be the secret of the two of them forever. What other people don’t know, as Clara said, isn’t going to hurt them.
She looked so good this morning. Smelled so good. She had prepared herself for him. Clara never goes into any situation unprepared. He imagines clutching her breast through the thin jersey top. Plunging his hand under her skirt and up and in between those incredible legs. Finding flimsy panties—
His computer emits the electronic burbling noise that means someone’s trying to contact him on Skype.
It’s Caroline. The computer screen blossoms with her blonde and coppery beauty.
“So what are you doing?” she says. She’s smiling, but he has the uncomfortable feeling she knows exactly what he was just thinking about.
“Packing. It’s so boring, and I’m so bad at it.”
“You need me there, I’m a great packer.”
“I know, I wish you were here.”
“You look tired.”
“I am. There’s so much to do.”
“Poor Roberto. I know how you hate to do anything practical.”
He laughs. “I’m not like that.”
“But you are. Have you sold your car yet?”
“Not yet. I really like that car. I hate to give it up.”
“It doesn’t make sense to put it in storage. It’s an unnecessary expense, and it will just deteriorate.”
For the daughter of a rich man, she’s surprisingly thrifty.
“You’re right, I’ll take care of it.”
“And how is it going with the old girlfriends? Notifying them that you’re leaving?”
“One or two are contemplating suicide. But the rest are holding up fairly well.”
“I’m glad.”
He hears an off-screen hacking noise.
“Uh-oh, Gabriela’s throwing up,” says Caroline. She disappears from the screen, then returns a few moments later. “Hair ball.”
“How’s your mother?”
“She’s been a little better the last couple of days.” Caroline looks sad. “But is that a good thing, really? All these little rallies do is just prolong things. Probably it would be better if she just took a drastic turn for the worse, and then it was over. As it is, her torture just continues. So does my father’s.”
“And it can’t be easy on you either.”
“As long as I know that you’re in my life, I’m okay. I can handle it.”
Roberto feels a sudden pang of guilt about having been mentall
y unfaithful to her with Clara.
“I’ll be in your life as long as you want me.”
“That means always.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I love you.”
“Oh I love you too. I want to see you. It seems like it’s been years since I’ve seen you. Wednesday can’t come soon enough.”
“It’s just two days. It will pass in no time,” and then he says, “Caroline? Take off your shirt.”
She gives him an odd, crooked little smile, then pulls her T-shirt over her head. She’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts aren’t large, but are perfectly shaped. He’s always loved her compact little nipples.
“Stand up,” he says. She stands, and “Now the rest,” he says.
She strips off pants and panties, revealing the dark gold of her pubic hair. She sits back down and says, “Your turn.”
He takes off his clothes. He’s already hard. He starts to stroke himself.
“Touch your nipples,” he says, and she does, and then he says, “Touch yourself down there.”
She does. She closes her eyes, and sighs.
“You’re inside me, Roberto. Do you feel it? I feel it. You feel so good inside me. I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s you, Roberto. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, it’s you—”
* * *
Blanca, head to toe: teased bleached blonde hair, green metallic eye shadow, bright-orange lipstick, an elaborate emerald necklace, a green chiffon bustier with a spray of glittering green beads extending over the right boob, fingernail polish that matches the lipstick, skin-tight orange satin stretch pants, and orange stiletto heels. She has a vivid, fruity quality about her, as befits a former Miss Mango or Miss Tangerine.
She’s a centimeter or two taller than Franz. She has a tremendous figure that looks as though it ought to appear in the tabloids. If with Clara it’s a matter of conjecture whether she’s ever had cosmetic surgery, Blanca has never tried to hide the fact she’s had many procedures, nose, eyes, lips, breasts, especially breasts. She’s paid a visit to the “tit factory,” as Franz calls it, four different times, most recently because she felt she had overshot the mark the third time and wanted them scaled back a bit.
At the moment, she’s berating the nanny for allowing the youngest of the three children, Abril, to drop some food on the floor.
“I’m tired of the children making messes, Josefina.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Josefina says, starting to rise from her chair. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Stay where you are,” says Blanca, “that’s the maid’s job,” and on cue one of the maids comes scurrying over to clean up the not very messy mess. “The maids clean things up. You control the children. Do you understand?”
“Yes ma’am,” Josefina says meekly.
Blanca is hard on nannies, and goes through several a year. They all look more or less the same: Blanca has liked them to be as dark and little and ugly as possible, ever since she caught Franz having sex with a cute nanny from France. Now Blanca flashes her big white teeth at Roberto in an apologetic smile.
“How do you like the chicken?” she asks.
“It’s delicious, Blanca.”
Everybody is having chicken and rice except for the vegan Franz, who is having grilled tofu and vegetables.
“Papa says you’re leaving,” says Siegfried. At eight, he’s the oldest child. He’s looking at Roberto solemnly. He seems much older than eight.
“Yes, on Wednesday.”
“But Papa didn’t tell us why. It seems to be a big secret.”
Roberto glances at Franz. He nods slightly.
“There are some people in this country who don’t like the stories I write. Some of them are dangerous. So I thought it would be a good idea to leave for a while. But I’ll be back.”
“When?” says Britney. Named after an American pop singer who is a favorite of Blanca’s.
“It won’t be too long, I hope.”
“Will you be back by Christmas?” asks Britney.
“Probably not.”
“That means you’ll be gone a long time,” Abril says. “Christmas is a long time.”
He’ll miss Franz’s kids. Despite having Blanca as their mother, they have turned out well. They’re all calm and good-natured like Franz. They also have his blond blue-eyed good looks.
“We’ll visit Roberto in Saint Lucia,” says Franz. “You’ve never been there before. They have beautiful beaches. We can swim in the ocean. It will be fun.”
“Do they have volcanoes there?” asks Siegfried. “I’ve always wanted to visit a volcano.”
“They actually do have one,” says Roberto. “It’s dormant though.”
“It doesn’t have lava in it? I want to see lava.”
“A little steam, but no lava. Sorry.”
“They have volcanos with lava in Hawaii,” says Blanca. “We should go there.”
“Can we, Papa?” asks Siegfried.
“Okay.”
“But what about me, Siegfried?” Roberto teases. “Don’t you want to visit me in Saint Lucia?”
“Yes, Roberto, very much. Even more than I want to see a volcano with lava.”
He says this with such earnestness that all the adults laugh.
“What’s the shopping like in Saint Lucia?” says Blanca.
“I don’t know. I’ll ask Caroline.”
Blanca loves above all things to travel and shop. Her closets are filled with the clothes and the house is cluttered with the curios and artifacts and artwork she has bought on their frequent trips. She has no job, no cause she supports, no charitable work she does. All her days are the same. She’s entirely a creature of the moment, like a bird or an insect. She laughs often, but seldom at anything actually funny. Roberto still finds it hard to believe Franz ever married her.
She was the daughter of the chief of police in the little subtropical town of San Tomé, about a hundred kilometers from the city. Franz bought a farm near the town as a vacation retreat not long after he graduated from college. He took an interest in the affairs of the town and donated a large sum of money so a new school could be built. The mayor of San Tomé asked him if he would do the town the honor of judging its yearly beauty contest, Miss Pineapple or Miss Guava, and Franz, who loves women, was happy to oblige. And so he met and married Blanca.
Franz is very reticent about his personal life, even with his closest friends, so his relationship with his wife is something of a mystery to Roberto. They seem spectacularly ill-matched, and yet they’ve stayed together for nine years. Probably if the kids hadn’t come along so quickly, the marriage would have been over a long time ago. There doesn’t seem to be much if any passion still simmering between them. Roberto knows Franz doesn’t like change, so perhaps over time he has simply grown accustomed to a life with Blanca. Roberto’s guess is they have an arrangement, even if it’s never been put into words: she’s free to do whatever she wants, and he can see other women, as long as it’s not like the French nanny and doesn’t happen physically in front of her face. Franz always seems to have a girlfriend or two; occasionally he will vaguely allude to one, although Roberto has never met any of them or even learned their names.
“Caroline’s so sweet,” Blanca says, “I like her so much.”
“She’s very fond of you too, Blanca,” Roberto lies.
“So when are you getting married? Have you set the date?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it going to be a big wedding?”
“I don’t know, we haven’t talked about it. I hope not.”
“Oh, every girl wants a big wedding. I know I certainly did,” and she looks at Franz. “Remember how big ours was?”
Franz nods grimly.
“I love to plan weddings,” Blanca continues, “it’s really my field of expertise. My mother’s the same way, they call her the Wedding Queen of San Tomé. Please tell Caroline I’d be more than happy to help her
when the time comes. I’ll fly to Saint Lucia at a moment’s notice!”
“That’s very generous of you, Blanca,” says Roberto. “Yes, I will tell Caroline that.”
* * *
“There is an ancient Arabic saying,” Franz says, toying with the glass of wine from which he will barely drink. “‘There are as many paths to God as there are children of Adam.’”
“But to me that’s simply nonsense,” Roberto says.
“But Roberto, don’t you see? That’s the particular path you’re on. The path of denial. You can’t escape being on a path, no matter how hard you try.”
“So is a killer on a path to God?”
“Yes. Because who’s to say the journey’s supposed to take just one lifetime? Maybe it takes a nearly infinite series of lives to get to God.”
“Define God. Just so we’ll know exactly what we’re talking about.”
“God is that which cannot be defined.”
“How convenient.”
“The truth is what it is, Roberto. Whether or not you or I find it convenient.”
“Okay, here’s some truth for you. I saw a little girl yesterday. Sitting in an outhouse. Covered with blood. She’d been shot in the head, but before she was killed her sexual organs had been mutilated.”
Franz looks surprised. “My god, Roberto. What happened?”
Roberto tells him about the three murders, and then about Lieutenant Matallana.
“I talked to him today. He thinks he knows who the killers are. And I don’t believe they’re on a path to God.”
“I understand.”
“Anyway. I’ve had enough of this country, at least for a while. I’m more than happy to leave.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Roberto’s in Franz’s study, sitting on a low couch with plenty of pillows. The floor is polished stone. Water flows down over glistening rocks into a pool with goldfish in it, producing a soothing trickling noise. In front of a golden and mysteriously smiling statue of the Buddha is a mat on which Franz does his yoga. Franz likes candles, and there are several burning around the room. Beyond the room is the rest of the house, far too large for a family of five, and reflective of Blanca’s eclectic taste. Beyond the house are surveillance cameras and high, ivy-covered walls, and beyond the walls is a gated community patrolled by security guards with shotguns. And beyond the gated community are the chaotic city and the crazed country and the perishing planet, and so it is always pleasant to sit with Franz and sip his excellent wine in the enclave of simplicity and serenity he has established here.
