Certain Dark Things

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “Let’s go. I can’t stand this infernal place. My head feels as though it might burst,” Bernardino said.

  Domingo took a final sip of his beer and stood up. Despite the cane, Bernardino moved surprisingly fast, evading drunkards and servers, leaving them behind in a heartbeat. Once outside, Atl and Domingo were able to catch up with him.

  “Who’s the right person?” Atl asked. She sounded anxious, and the way she walked next to Bernardino only seemed to reinforce this impression, something about her reminding Domingo of the incessant fluttering of a hummingbird. “You said you knew the right person.”

  “Manuel Tejera.”

  “Can he get me into Guatemala?”

  “If he wants to. He’ll want to after I’ve spoken to him,” Bernardino said firmly.

  “Do we go see him now?”

  “Yes.”

  Atl slowed down for a second, then lost her balance and stumbled. Domingo grabbed her, steadying her. Her eyes seemed glassy and she winced.

  “Bernardino, she’s not looking too good. Maybe we should do this tomorrow. Or we can come back together, you and me, while Atl rests.”

  “I’m fine,” Atl said, protesting loudly.

  “No, you’re not,” Domingo said. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

  They evaded a puddle of barf smack in the middle of the sidewalk and Domingo leaned down, closer to her.

  “Atl—”

  “You can’t send me home for a warm glass of milk,” she said, irritated.

  “I’m not trying to be a dick, it’s just I don’t like seeing you in pain,” he said, a hand resting against her shoulder. “Atl, you can trust us. We can do this for you.”

  “Make up your mind and tell me if you’re coming or not,” Bernardino warned them.

  “I said I’m fine.”

  Atl elbowed Domingo away and walked next to Bernardino. He followed them with a sigh.

  * * *

  The symbol of the subway station at La Merced was a basket filled with apples, clear commemoration of one of the most famous—or infamous—markets in Mexico City. In the time of the Aztecs it had been home to the House of the Birds and after the Spanish conquest it was the place where authorities determined the prices of grain. It sprawled across dozens of blocks where merchants, prostitutes, and buyers spent their days haggling.

  At night the street sellers of La Merced had packed their wares away. The stores were closed. But it was still a lively place, with the prostitutes working the streets. Rows and rows of women in miniskirts, high heels, and pounds of makeup stood texting their friends. When they walked by they looked up for a second at them or flashed them a crimson smile.

  Bernardino led them to the doors of a vecindad, which, like most other buildings in this quarter, hailed from the previous century or two. There was no buzzer and Bernardino did not even pull out a key. He simply pushed the door open, and open it did.

  The interior patio smelled heavily of dry shrimp, and Domingo realized, looking at crates piled high, that it was because there was quite a lot of shrimp there. La Merced belonged to merchants, and Domingo wasn’t surprised to see someone had decided to store goods in the patio, forcing people to walk around the crates.

  The shrimp made him think of the sea, which he’d never seen. He guessed he might see it now, with Atl.

  Bernardino led them to a door that had been decorated by attaching dozens of plushies and plastic toys to it. There were naked dolls, plastic figurines without their limbs, and a one-eyed teddy bear. It was creepy as hell, and made Domingo give Atl a worried look. But she stood stoically as Bernardino rapped on the door.

  There was a faint movement of the curtains in the window to the left of the door and then an old man opened the door for them. He was gray, this man, as though he’d been placed in the washing machine too many times. Even his lips seemed gray. His T-shirt, of a color that only approximated white, was stained yellow at the neck.

  “I didn’t think you left your home anymore,” the old man said. “I thought you’d turned into a regular old hermit.”

  “Invite us in,” Bernardino replied.

  “I like that about your kind, Bernardino. You are polite. You don’t break windows and storm into a house. Come in, then. Come.”

  The apartment was tiny. The living room, kitchen, and dining room were in one spot. A curtain with a pattern of daisies, dangling over a piece of rope, divided the small space. Domingo figured behind the curtain was both the man’s bed and the bathroom.

  “You look good.”

  “I don’t think I can say the same,” Bernardino said smoothly.

  “My liver,” the old man replied, patting his swollen belly. “I’ll be dead next year. It doesn’t matter. High time, I say. Sit down.”

  They sat around the table. Its surface was covered with a yellow-and-white piece of plastic instead of a tablecloth. A statue of San Judas Tadeo sat next to the salt and pepper. On the wall, dirty with age and spotted with humidity, there was a green cross, Jesus resting on it. Several dolls had been nailed to the wall, like butterflies in glass cases.

  “You got yourself new Renfields?”

  “No. They are friends. Of a sort. Manuel, meet Atl and Domingo.”

  “Hello, young folks,” Manuel said. “Do you want coffee? I drink it with a smidgen of mezcal, myself.”

  Domingo looked at the man’s dirty shirt, his greasy hair, and shook his head, though it was not his hygiene that held him back. He’d already had booze and did not want to attempt more, never having been the best at alcohol.

  “No, thank you,” Atl said.

  “Suit yourself.” Manuel dabbled in the kitchen, opening a cupboard and pulling out a cup, a box with sugar, a spoon.

  “I need you to do something for me. A delivery.”

  “Didn’t think you were still in that business,” Manuel said, setting down his cup and sitting down. “What do you need to get across?”

  “The kids.”

  “People? That’s a bit of a pickle, isn’t it?”

  “As if you never trafficked people,” Bernardino scoffed.

  “Usually I was trying to get them into Mexico. You’re talking the other way around. There’s a difference.”

  “Not impossible.”

  “No,” Manuel said. “I’m a bit out of the loop, you know?”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  Manuel took out a pair of round-rimmed glasses from his back trouser pocket and put them on, examining Domingo and Atl. “Can I look at your hands, dear?” he asked.

  Atl complied, pressing her one good, gloved hand on the table.

  Manuel chuckled. “I know what that means. She’s a vampire, ain’t she? You’re from the Aztec tribe.”

  Manuel took off his glasses, using them to point at Bernardino. “Shit ain’t like it used to be. They’re real paranoid down at the border nowadays. Next thing you know, they’ll be having thermal scanners there, too.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Doubt it all you want.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I want you to employ the trails, like you used to. Elisa wouldn’t take the gig. I thought you had more balls,” Bernardino said.

  “Elisa,” Manuel said. “That chit. Good for nothing. She never could make a run across without messing something up. I’m not surprised.”

  “And then?”

  “I told you, my liver is killing me,” the old man said, rubbing his belly for emphasis. “I want to stay here and watch TV, not run around a dusty road into Guatemala. What would that get me? Me? Money? A bit pointless, now.”

  “You owe me a favor.”

  “I know.” Manuel sipped his coffee.

  Domingo noticed that there were more toys on the refrigerator. They were everywhere, sad and broken, much like the old man. Was this a former Renfield? He didn’t seem like much. Domingo had a hard time picturing him next to Bernardino; the old vampire was aristocratic looking, not the type who would associate with a bum. Domingo realized that he hims
elf didn’t look like much either. Was he like this guy, only younger? That was a nasty thought.

  “We can’t have the pickup in Mexico City. They’re looking for her. Outside, not far from a landfill,” Bernardino said.

  “Bordo Blanco,” Domingo said. “We’ll be at Tenayuca and Catedra.”

  “How soon?” Manuel asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Bernardino said. “One a.m.”

  “Tomorrow’s no good, buddy. I got to make sure the car’s working right and pack supplies.”

  “Then the night after that.”

  “I’ll need a bit of money, Bernardino. For business expenses.”

  Bernardino placed several bills on the table. Manuel grabbed them quickly, crumpling and placing them in his pockets.

  “We should celebrate. You sure you don’t want a drink?”

  “Where’s your bathroom?” Atl asked.

  “Right there,” Manuel said, pointing at the curtain.

  Atl stood up. Domingo rose at once, to offer his assistance, but Atl placed her hand on Bernardino’s shoulder instead. The vampire stood up and they walked side by side, pulling the curtain away. They stepped into the bathroom together. Domingo heard the click of a lock. He stared at the bathroom door, nervously tapping his fingers against the table.

  “Relax. He won’t hurt her,” Manuel said.

  “I know.”

  “He ain’t having sex with her either, in case that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Domingo said.

  What kind of perverted comment was that? Despite his impressive voice Bernardino was a hunched man of possibly seventy? Eighty? At least, judging by his face. Probably much older. Domingo very much doubted Atl would ever want anything to do with him.

  “Well, he might have, once upon a time. Had lovers of all sorts, had a thing for black hair. Not humans, though. They,” Manuel said, making a sweeping gesture, “well, they’re the same species. They like to fuck each other more than us. We’re not that fun.”

  “Look, I don’t really—”

  “Haven’t had her yet? The young vampires, they have less taboos than the old farts. And I see that look in your eyes. You want the girl. I can tell, oh, I can tell.” The old man laughed, showing him a gap-toothed grin.

  Domingo felt himself flushing, mortified by the very thought of admitting such a thing to the old man. “What’s with the dolls and toys?” Domingo asked, wishing to change the subject as quickly as possible.

  “They guard me, help me keep the ghosts away,” Manuel said. “They got their eyes wide open, so nothing will dare sneak into this house.”

  “You really think there are ghosts?”

  “There are ghosts. I killed a lot of people. That’s a lot of ghosts. Lots of ghosts. It’s the price of hanging out with their kind. Yeah, it’s the price,” the man said. “Killed for her yet?”

  “No.”

  “You will,” Manuel said. “What? You don’t want to? Sure you want to. Kill and fuck, kill and fuck. All the same for them. The same for us all, eventually.”

  Domingo grabbed the plastic San Judas Tadeo, gently tracing the contours of its robe, trying hard to ignore the man’s laughter.

  CHAPTER

  32

  Atl rested her back against the cool bathroom tiles and sighed. Bernardino looked down at her, frowning.

  “The boy was right. You are weak.”

  She hated the way he said it, as an indictment. “I’m okay,” Atl muttered, uncomfortable.

  “No, you’re not,” Bernardino replied. “I will assist you.”

  He pressed a hand against her neck and hovered close. His breath was scalding and again she had the distinct sensation that a noxious substance was burning through her body, as though he’d injected acid into her veins.

  The sensation died away and Atl shook her head, flexed her hand. She was restored, filled to the brim. For his part, Bernardino seemed suddenly older, with more streaks of silver in his hair.

  “It’ll be the last time you can expect that,” he said very seriously.

  “I understand.” She could feel the very fibers of her body trembling and rearranging themselves, healing faster. But it wasn’t quite right. She wanted blood just as a smoker might crave a cigarette instead of a nicotine patch. Even if Bernardino nourished Atl, the blood called for her. It was inevitable.

  Atl opened the bathroom door and they stepped out.

  * * *

  The cool air was very welcome, as was the soft drizzle that fell upon them. They were walking fast and Domingo had a bit of trouble keeping up with them, but Atl didn’t slow down.

  When they reached the house, she went quickly up the stairs, ignoring Cualli, who was waiting by the front door. Domingo followed her, intent on becoming her shadow. Once they reached her room, she slammed the door shut and glared at him, lighting the lantern. For his use. She wouldn’t have bothered with it.

  “Atl?”

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “What was what?” Domingo said, giving her a blank look.

  “You telling Bernardino I was too damn weak to go to La Merced. Interfering.”

  “I wasn’t … you are weak,” he protested. “Bernardino can do his hocus-pocus life energy thing, but that doesn’t mean you’ve healed.”

  “I’m not interested in broadcasting my current state to the entire world.”

  “It’s not that hard to see.”

  “Of course not. Not if you yell it.”

  Domingo bit his lip, looking stung. Not angry. Just deflated. It was irritating watching him fold onto himself, like a piece of origami.

  “He’s not my kin,” Atl said. “You can only trust your kin.”

  “I thought you could trust me. I wouldn’t let you down. And aren’t you trusting Bernardino right now?”

  She turned away from him. It was too difficult to explain to Domingo the intricacies of family and clans, of blood ties that bind, and she did not feel she had enough patience to begin to map it out for him.

  “I’m trying to help you,” he said, all youthful vehemence.

  “Yes. I know. You’re always trying to help me,” she replied, wishing her voice were not so brittle.

  “Why is that so bad?”

  “You have no idea what it feels like to suddenly be completely dependent, completely helpless,” she whispered. She grabbed the change of clothes that was waiting for her on the bed and held it up for him to see.

  “I can’t even change out of my clothes without your help,” she said unkindly, though he was guilty of nothing but kindness.

  Atl tossed the clothes on the floor, wanting very much to tear them to pieces. She kicked them away instead. “I hate needing you,” she said. “That’s what it is. I fucking hate it.”

  “I need you, too,” he said.

  Atl slowly raised her head and scoffed at him, at the earnest quality of his voice. The way he cringed at her anger, the wounded look washing over him, they were almost infectious.

  “It’s not the same thing,” she replied.

  “Yeah. I know,” he said, and for once his voice held a different note, hurt, yes, but also something decisive.

  His eyes cut her, got under her skin, like shards of glass.

  Atl whirled away and Domingo found enough courage to pull her toward him. She rested her good hand against his chest, frowning.

  “I don’t want you getting hurt,” he said. “That’s all. I’m sorry.”

  She nodded, found the buttons of his shirt, toying with the top one, undoing it and doing it again, her finger sliding to touch the hollow of his throat. His blood, she could almost hear it cresting up to meet her caress.

  “Atl,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Can I kiss you again?”

  “You didn’t kiss me the first time,” she replied, remembering the pitiful peck he’d given her the previous night.

  He attempted a second kiss, this one a proper one, thoug
h truth be told he wasn’t terribly good at kissing. All he could manage was to part his lips and stand stiff as a board. She pushed back against his kiss, challenging him, until he seemed to relax, placing an arm around her waist and she reciprocated by resting a hand on his nape, her fingers tangling in his hair.

  When the kiss ended she did not distance herself, her body flush against him. Her irritation had faded. There was comfort to be had in his nearness.

  “You’re shaking,” she said, realizing it sounded like an accusation and not bothering to sweeten her voice.

  “Yeah, well, you’re very pretty,” he mumbled.

  They were quiet. She didn’t really want him to speak and just stood there, next to him, the lantern draping them in a vague halo of light, illuminating his features, though she could have seen him well enough without its assistance.

  Domingo took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure whether you liked me,” he said.

  She brushed his arm, giving him a sideways look. “I like you,” she said simply.

  It was no lie, but she didn’t enjoy saying it. It sounded childish. The kind of thing girls might write on a piece of paper and pass around a classroom, giggling. Something she’d never done, nor would she have wanted to, had she had the chance. She was of an entirely more practical nature.

  Atl took off her jacket, attempted to take off the blouse and found her fingers fumbling the job. Thankfully, he didn’t ask if he could help her. Instead, he wordlessly pulled the blouse from her shoulders, undid the zipper of her skirt. The shoes should have been no problem, but he had her sit on the bed and pulled them off anyway. He managed to avoid looking at her the whole time, his eyes darting to the far corners of the room.

  It made her grin.

  “Maybe I should turn the lantern off,” he offered.

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  Domingo removed his vest, shirt, and belt, though he hesitated at the trousers and shoes and Atl wondered if he was going to get in bed with them on. Finally, he kicked the shoes away, undressed entirely, and sat next to her. Atl looked at him, first a clinical examination of his neck, shoulders, arms. He was a rangy thing, nothing but bones, though she didn’t find this displeasing. She discovered a scar upon his collarbone and touched it.