Latitude Zero

by Diana Renn

  “It is not fun,” Lucia said sharply. “It’s the most dangerous section of Quito. It’s full of gringo tourists—sorry,” she added to me. “Not like you. People who are out looking for trouble.”

  “But I’m seventeen,” I reminded them. “My parents let me go to some dicey areas in Boston. I think with some common sense I’ll be fine. Besides, it can’t be that bad if Mari is staying there.” I sounded confident, but I quaked inside. If La Zona was really such a hotbed for criminals, wouldn’t that be where Darwin and his crew were most likely to hang out?

  Lucia jabbed a bobby pin into her sleek bun. “This is the problem in your country,” she said. “Too many kids are raising themselves. Parents are not conveying good values. In my opinion, this is why your country has so much violence.”

  I glanced out the window behind us as we drove away. Paolo tipped his beret at me and continued polishing his gun.

  36

  I SAW most of Quito that day through the tinted window of the car. Insulated. We drove around the modern section, with its sleek hotels and office buildings, its plazas with fountains and red poinsettia trees, growing wild and unpruned, like little explosions of Christmas. Rogue palm trees sprouted up in plazas and boulevards, hardy in the mountain air, and reminders that the Amazon Basin—the jungle—wasn’t so far away after all. I loved the wild, random, sprawling feel. Boston and Cambridge seemed so planned, so pruned, in comparison. I wished I could just run outside and get lost in the maze of streets here.

  But I was safest with the Ruiz family, in the car. The whole time, I kept one eye on the sights and one eye peeled for Darwin, Pizarro, and Balboa. I even picked up a disguise at a crafts fair we visited: a white blouse with embroidery from an indígena, which I immediately slipped on over my T-shirt. A wool shoulder bag with llamas marching across it and a wool hat with ear flaps completed the full-on Ecuadorian tourist look. I tucked my hair up inside it, and pulled the hat low over my head.

  “Are you cold?” Lucia guessed with a sympathetic smile. “They call this the City of Eternal Spring, but tourists are surprised by the altitude. The mornings can be quite chilly.”

  “A little. We are pretty high up, aren’t we? The air feels so thin.”

  Hugo pressed two bottles of water into my hands and slipped another one into my new Ecuadorian tote bag. “Drink plenty of this,” he advised. “Altitude sickness can sneak up on you these first few days. You must be on the alert for it.”

  I opened a bottle and drank, wishing altitude sickness wasn’t the only thing I had to be on the alert for.

  Leaving the crafts market, I tried to be a dutiful host daughter and admire the sights they were pointing out. I had to admit, Quito was stunning in its rough beauty. The hills that embraced the city were the lushest green. The clouds hung low, as if dropped from the sky. The buildings rose unevenly and were painted in an array of colors, a mix of concrete, stucco, and glass. High on a hill overlooking the historic district stood a metal statue of a woman that reminded me of the Statue of Liberty. But this statue had a halo and angel wings. She held up one arm in a graceful gesture, as if blessing the entire city at her feet.

  “That’s el Panecillo,” said Amparo, pointing to the statue. “Or the Virgin of Quito. She is our city’s madonna.”

  “She is made of seven thousand pieces of aluminum,” Andreas chimed in.

  “Wow, it’s gorgeous.” A far cry from Amber’s bike sculptures. “I bet the view’s amazing from that hill.” I startled as a black Honda Civic drove by. I shielded my eyes from it and gazed into the distance. “Can you walk up?” Can we go there now? Someone was parking the Honda Civic. It looked just like the car Darwin had driven away from the airport. I pulled my hat lower.

  “Yes,” said Andreas.

  “No,” said my host parents at the same time. “There have been muggings at El Panecillo,” Lucia added. “It isn’t safe to hike there. But she is beautiful from afar, isn’t she?”

  A family of four got of the car and went to a ceviche restaurant. Not Darwin. I breathed easier. But I kept looking behind me and all around me, like someone in a bicycle race, expecting Darwin or Pizarro or Balboa to pop up anytime, anyplace.

  /////

  BY LUNCHTIME, all the clouds had burned off, revealing the rolling green hills that embraced the city and the snowcapped volcanoes beyond. Everyone was hungry. I found a restaurant on a map that was right by La Zona, but Hugo and Lucia had other plans: a ritzy café on Amazonas near the financial district. In the complete opposite direction.

  From our table by the window, Hugo pointed to the highest hill. “That is Guagua Pichincha, our resident volcano,” he said. “And there. Our jewel.” He pointed to a far-off mountain that reminded me of an ice-cream cone. “Cotopaxi.”

  I barely looked. Instead, as Hugo and Lucia lectured me about Ecuadorian natural attractions and geology, I stared out the window at a bus stop.

  A big poster advertised the Pan-American Cycling Tour, coming to Quito in just five days. It wasn’t a true photograph, but more like some kind of enhanced graphic, or computer-generated art. Gorgeous. The picture showed a peloton of cyclists: the Ecuadorian team, dressed in red, yellow, and blue—thundering down a cobblestoned street. They rode beautiful, fire-red bikes, with the brand-name Diablo spelled out on the frames. They all had intense looks on their faces. Like any cycling team. I gazed at it. I’d forgotten how much cycling inspired me.

  From where I sat, I could just make out the text on the poster. Equipo Diablo headed a list of twenty other teams in the PAC Tour—up-and-coming teams from the United States, Latin America, and Europe. Team Cadence-EcuaBar was right beneath them. But Equipo Diablo was spelled out large. It jolted me, seeing Team Cadence-EcuaBar so diminished, and not the headline act. But Equipo Diablo was the home favorite here.

  My gaze shifted to a poster beside it, which was equally stunning. This one advertised the city’s weeklong cycling expo. The guy featured in this picture—a real photo, not an artistic rendering—wore a red jumpsuit and a red motorcycle helmet. But he was on a bike. He and that bike were flying down a long stone staircase, both wheels off the road, cobblestones beneath. So this must be urban downhill racing. I shivered. It looked terrifying, just from the picture.

  Then I saw, in blazing letters below the soaring bike:

  ¡Venga a ver el último viaje del Ratón!

  El Ratón? I inched close to the window and looked closely at the photo. It was hard to see the face with that helmet on. But that had to be Juan Carlos’s best friend. How many well-known cyclists named el Ratón could there be?

  And why was this his last ride?

  The Ruizes, having figured out I wasn’t listening, followed my gaze to the posters.

  “Ah! El Ratón! He is famous!” said Andreas.

  “Why do they call him ‘the mouse’?” I asked him.

  “Because he is small and quick and impossible to catch. He is the best downhill racer in Quito. But he has been training for road racing. This is why he appears in both posters.”

  I squinted at the first poster. Sure enough, the cyclist leading the Equipo Diablo peloton was el Ratón. Even though the image was artistically enhanced, it was the same guy I’d seen with Juan Carlos, in photos, and in the TV interview I’d watched online last night. He had high cheekbones and a distinctive cleft chin. Though he wasn’t the cycling poster boy that Juan Carlos had been—I couldn’t picture his face on a billboard—he had rugged good looks, like Quito itself. The kind of face you’d look at twice and find something in to admire.

  Something else didn’t make sense. “If he’s in this downhill cycling expo in a few days, but Equipo Diablo is in Venezuela right now, how can he race both events?” I asked Andreas, since he seemed to know the most about cycling.

  “El Ratón is ending his downhill career this week,” Andreas explained. “The five-day stage race in Quito this weekend
marks his debut with Equipo Diablo.”

  “It seems a little optimistic, don’t you think? Putting him in front of the peloton when he’s never ridden with the team before?”

  “Oh, but he’s very good,” said Hugo. “Andreas and I have been following his career. El Ratón has trained with the Vuelta racing club for two years. Cycling team scouts from Ecuador, Colombia, even los Estados Unidos, have been saying he is el próximo!”

  “The next what?”

  “The next el Cóndor.”

  Lucia made a dismissive gesture that made her bracelets jangle. “He is good but not the best. It is strange to me that he got this position so suddenly, when other cyclists have worked longer for the honor. Then again, it’s not really about talent, is it? I think they put him in that picture only because of the media.”

  I sat forward. “What’s the media here saying about el Ratón?”

  “There was a lot of, what is the word, hype?” said Lucia. “Because el Cóndor was coming home for the PAC Tour.”

  “The big race between two best friends, on rival teams, was going to be the biggest sporting event Ecuador has seen since Jefferson Pérez won the Olympic gold,” said Hugo.

  I understood how the media could shape a story. That wasn’t necessarily bad. Especially if it got more people interested in watching a sport like pro cycling.

  “Who’d they want to win? El Cóndor or el Ratón?” I asked.

  “El Ratón, of course,” said Andreas.

  “El Cóndor,” said Amparo at the same time. “No. Not everyone here supports el Ratón,” Amparo corrected. “I wanted el Cóndor to win.”

  “Only because he is muy caliente,” teased Andreas. He kissed the air.

  Amparo swatted his arm. “That is not why. And Mami wanted el Cóndor to win, too.”

  I looked at Lucia. “Really? How come?”

  Lucia pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. She chose her words with care. “He is—he was—a brave young man,” she said. “Brave to go to another country, so young. Very hardworking, too. I felt he represented us Ecuadorians, and he gave us a sense of pride and possibility. We do not have so many sports heroes here. And this downhill racing business”—she made that dismissive gesture again—“it is an exciting sport. But road racing can take an Ecuadorian athlete to Colombia, to the U.S., to Europe . . . to the biggest races in the world.”

  Hugo shrugged. “In your country, and in Europe,” he said, “the sport is about the characters, the big personalities. In Ecuador, cycling has been more about teams than individuals. This is changing now. I think because of the success Juan Carlos has had in your country. Here, we used to be happy if any team placed well in an international event. It was good for our country, psychologically. Now, though, people are interested in these two big names, in individuals. The Great Bird versus the Mouse. Even betting on their racing results.” He shook his head. “Before Juan Carlos died, all this talk of the PAC Tour homecoming—it was a circus.”

  Lucia clapped her hands together. “Enough talk about this bicycle tragedy. It is too sad for lunchtime conversation. Let us talk of happy things. Tessa, what do you think of Ecuadorian food so far?”

  Lucia proceeded to explain the various dishes. Then Hugo pointed out some banks as we continued eating. The Ruizes kept wanting me to look up, up, up—at the sky, at the statues, at the buildings, the hills. But my eyes kept drifting down, to images of very different lives.

  Across from the bus stop outside, I saw women, maybe my mother’s age, almost bent double as they lugged burlap sacks of potatoes, cabbages, even whole dead chickens. I saw men and women in ragged ponchos setting up pyramids of produce to sell—in the median of the street—while their babies toddled toward the street and cars brushed by within inches. I saw lottery ticket hawkers, men carrying huge bags of soccer balls, umbrellas, and pink toilet paper rolls, all for sale.

  And I saw children. Everywhere, children in need of baths, hairbrushes, meals. They picked lice out of one another’s hair while sitting on the sidewalk. They chased businessmen with shoeshine kits, crying out, “¡Señor! ¿Limpianos?” They came into the restaurant to sell red roses and gum, calling “¡Compre! ¡Compre!” and weary waiters shooed them away. Meanwhile, all these well-off Ecuadorians and foreign tourists chatted away, oblivious. The Ruizes, too.

  What had Juan Carlos’s life been like here? Where had he fit in? What life was he pedaling away from when he took his chances and joined an American team?

  I’d heard he was from humble origins, his father a glass factory worker. Would Juan Carlos have done anything to get away from the hardscrabble life here in Quito?

  Like get involved with a drug cartel? Or fail in a desperate attempt to break away from one? What had Juan Carlos kept close to his chest, besides that crucifix necklace?

  /////

  “HOLA. SANTIAGO? It’s me. Tessa.” I spoke in a hushed voice on the phone that evening, on the extension in the ex-maid’s room. I needed a moment of privacy—hard to find—and a break from looking at Amparo’s fourteen pageant photo albums. I also desperately needed help. I’d never made it to Mari’s neighborhood; the Ruizes whisked me from one actividad to another all day, and were adamant about steering clear of La Zona.

  “Tessa!” Santiago exclaimed, sounding pleased. “¿Qué tal?”

  “Not much. Am I interrupting you from anything?” I asked.

  “I have just been studying the present perfect progressive tense,” Santiago said, speaking slowly and precisely. “How is it? I have been using it correctly?”

  “Perfecto. And I’m sorry to interrupt your studying, but—”

  “It is a happy interruption. It is nice to hear your voice. I have been thinking about you.”

  I smiled into the phone, surprised at the warm feeling his words brought to me. I’d felt cold, almost numb, since Chain Reaction. My small reaction to Santiago’s compliment reminded me that somewhere inside me, I still had emotions. I still lived. “Really?” I said, almost shyly.

  “Present perfect progressive tense. How did I do?”

  I hesitated, then managed to laugh. I didn’t know why I’d assumed that his words carried some deeper meaning. Santiago was just a friendly guy. Just practicing his verbos. He was probably the least mysterious person I’d met in recent weeks.

  “I have a huge favor to ask you,” I went on. “Can you help me to contact my friend Mari? I can’t reach her, and I’m getting worried.”

  “I do not know this Mari,” said Santiago. “You are sure she is with Vuelta?”

  “I’m positive. Please, can you check? Her full name is Marisol Vargas.”

  “I will ask to my father right now how you can reach her. Momentito.”

  I heard faint conversation in Spanish. Then Santiago returned.

  “My father says she is here in Quito. She arrived on schedule.”

  I let out a long breath. So she was here in the city.

  “She worked at Vuelta for one or two days only, my father says. Then she had some kind of health problem, she said. Migraña.”

  “Migraine?” I guessed.

  “Yes, yes. She has migraines. She left a message for my father on the phone. She has not been in to the office for more than one week. Someone else is teaching her classes, but the students, they have been asking for Mari. My father says our receptionist came by to check on her and to bring her soup. Mari said her cousin is taking care of her, but she cannot say when she will return to work.”

  Cradling the phone, I lay back on the bed, trying to process this unexpected development. Mari had missed over a week of work? Could migraines be so bad they’d make her skip out on the job she’d traveled thousands of miles to work at? She’d never mentioned chronic migraines to me. Something felt deeply wrong.

  “Tessa? You are still there?” Santiago asked.

  “Uh, yeah. Still her
e.” I blew out a long breath to counter my rising panic. Darwin could have figured out Mari had a personal connection to Juan Carlos. A connection much stronger than mine. She’d be way more likely than me to have something they wanted. Maybe they were harassing her now. Maybe they’d even done something to her! Pizarro’s knife flashed into my mind.

  “Tessa? I have videos of my dance routine. Are you coming?” Amparo called out to me.

  “Momentito!” I called back to Amparo. “I need to see my friend Mari tomorrow morning,” I said to Santiago, talking fast. “But my host family won’t let me go to La Zona. Can you take me there? Please. I hate to bother you. I know you’re studying for the TOEFL. But it’s an urgent situation. I have to see her in person.”

  “Bueno. I can think of some way. I will liberate you at nine. Be ready!”

  37

  THE NEXT morning, true to his word, Santiago showed up right at nine. If there was such a thing as Latin American time, as Chris Fitch had said, it was me who was on it, not Santiago. I was barely out of the shower. Santiago chatted with Lucia in the living room, while I hastily dressed.

  Jake used to show up late all the time, I remembered, using his sense of precision timing only for his road races. But then his whole face would light up when he saw me, and he’d wrap his arms around me, enfolding me into his world, and none of that would matter.

  I ran a comb through my half-dried hair, vigorously, as if to rake out all thoughts of Jake. I hadn’t come to the middle of the world to brood over him.

  Amparo’s mirror was adorned with pageant photos of herself, and snapshots of her and her friends. All of them looking like models or telenovela stars. I made a face at my face. I set down the brush and tucked all my damp hair up in the woolen cap with the ear flaps. Dorky, yes, but I was going out in the city with spies on the loose. This was disguise time. Not a date. And I didn’t want to be intercepted by Darwin and his crew on the way to Mari’s.