Dance With Snakes

by Horatio Castellanos Moya

  When I woke up, it was already dark. The ladies had left their hiding places and were sleeping peacefully. I went back to the phone booth. This time a man answered.

  “Good evening. I’m calling from the telephone company,” I said. “This is a routine check. Is this 225-4435, the residence of Don Raúl Pineda?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “Your address, please.”

  It turned out that we were fairly close, about half an hour’s walk away. The yellow Chevrolet was sitting in its spot, where it would spend that night, the next one, and as far into the future as possible. I’d left the bottle of rum in the car, but I needed it for the trip, so I went back to get it, without thinking of inviting them along. Limping, I covered the distance to a residential area with tiny houses built close together – the cells of the masses. The driveways all looked alike, and they were packed with loud groups of people, as though everyone wanted to spend the night out under the stars. I stopped in front of the house. There was music and loud laughter coming from inside. I rang the doorbell. Soon a man came to the door, eager, and certain that I was the guy they’d been waiting for. His expression changed when he took in my appearance. I could see at least half a dozen men making a racket and drinking around a table, under a thick cloud of smoke that reeked of marijuana.

  “Is Gustavo here?” I asked before raising the bottle of rum to my lips.

  “Gustavo? Gustavo who?”

  “Gustavo,” I repeated. “He told me to meet him for a drink at this address.”

  Clearly, this guy wasn’t the owner of the house.

  “Hey, Raúl, do you know someone called Gustavo?” he shouted. But the others paid no attention to him. They were laughing, toasting each other, all talking at once. Finally a stocky, medium-sized guy got up and came to the door.

  “He says Gustavo invited him.”

  “Gustavo who?”

  The other man shrugged his shoulders. No one here knew anybody called Gustavo. I had the wrong address and I should leave. They closed the door in my face. I knocked again. Raúl opened the door. He stood on the threshold, menacing.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  I took another sip and nodded towards the inside of the house.

  “Are you Don Raúl Pineda?” I asked.

  He seemed confused and turned to look over at his buddies.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “Get to the point. I’m busy here.”

  “I have some letters,” I mumbled. “Letters sent by Mrs. Aurora Pineda to Don Jacinto Bustillo, both deceased, incidentally. I wanted to know if you were interested . . .”

  His face changed. Without a word, he grabbed me by the lapels and hauled me over to the table where the others were drinking. They jumped up and took out their guns.

  “Get this motherfucker!” He screamed, enraged.

  They picked me up by the arms and started beating me. “No one fucking blackmails me!” he shouted in between kicks and punches. They dropped me on the floor, beaten but still conscious. Raúl grabbed my hair, dragged me over to the door and kicked me out onto the street. “Next time I kill you, you piece of shit!” He came over again and booted me in the ribs.

  I stayed there, lying on the street, my face swollen and bloody, unable to breathe or move. I moaned and spit out a couple of teeth. I managed to get on my hands and knees to vomit. Everything was spinning. Finally, I got up, stumbling and balancing myself against trees, walls, and cars. I passed groups of people who moved away from me, whispering as I walked by. I needed a drink but my bottle had dropped when he’d dragged me into the house. I left the neighbourhood. I was disoriented. I staggered to one of those gas stations with a supermarket attached to it and an enormous parking lot. It was full of cars and teenagers drinking and shouting over the roar of their sound systems. I looked for a faucet to drink some water and splash my face. I lay down on some grass to rest when a smiling, drunk fat guy came over to piss next to me and decided to take advantage of my unfortunate condition.

  “Let’s see if you grow some branches,” he said, laughing as he doused me with his steaming piss.

  “You shit,” I said, and tried to get up.

  “What did you say!” he yelled. He came closer and aimed the stream in my face. I tried to cover myself with my hands. Furious, he shook it off, spit at me and kicked me a few times. I rolled backwards, even though my whole body ached. I hobbled over to a side street, wiping my face with my shirt, and headed down the road that would lead me back to my yellow Chevrolet. I climbed into the car, completely shattered, and looked for more rum. Without even turning on the flashlight, I let my body fall, hoping to sleep until the next day. But Beti was awake.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  I told her I’d gone to find Don Jacinto’s mistress’s husband, that he’d beaten me to a pulp and later, at a gas station, a fat guy had pissed on me. She was indignant. How could I have gone to find that man without taking them? I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to rest. The other three were awake now and they pressed for more details. I told them about my ordeal, but as I talked, my pain and exhaustion turned into rage. I hadn’t even been able to use my pocketknife. Assholes.

  “Let’s go settle the score with those people,” Carmela said decisively. She didn’t want to stop and discuss it and the others were just as riled up.

  I got on the stool, took the cardboard off the windshield and took off towards the gas station. I stopped the car at the entrance of the parking lot. I opened the car door and told them the fat guy was with that group over there. I took another swig of rum and lit a cigarette. It was a Friday night and the fun was about to begin. I’d never seen the ladies so furious. Carmela did a somersault and coiled herself around the fat guy’s neck so hard she nearly took his head off. The other three bit him before turning on his friends. The terror spread instantly. Some people were rushing into their cars; others were running to hide in the supermarket. Many didn’t even know what had caused the stampede. I took out my pocketknife and cleaned the dirt out from under my fingernails. In all the confusion, several cars collided trying to escape. A long-haired guy who’d been bitten managed to climb into his brand-new car and tear out at full speed, but lost control and smashed into the gas pumps. First there was a series of small explosions. Then there was a roar so loud I was afraid the explosion would fry the Chevrolet. The ladies scrambled inside, terrified by the fire. I put the car in reverse and managed to get out of the chaos. We headed to Raúl Pineda’s house. Slowly, the ladies regained their composure. I parked in the entrance of the driveway.

  “Be careful. These guys have guns,” I warned before turning off the car. Loli turned and looked at me doubtfully. “All four of you don’t have to go,” I said. I wanted a drink, but I’d already finished all the rum that was left. We got out. None of the ladies stayed behind. The groups of people had already broken up. There were only a few couples here and there in the driveways, talking. I told them to make sure no one saw them; otherwise, there’d be such a fuss the men inside would escape.

  I rang the bell and moved to the side of the door. One of the men opened it without asking who was there. Beti bit his hand. In a fraction of a second, the four of them threw themselves at him and all the people inside, who’d barely got to their feet. They were terrified, perhaps thinking that this was all a hallucination caused by too much mixing of booze and marijuana. I peeked inside, but I didn’t see Raúl among the convulsing bodies. He must have been in the bathroom. He’d probably barricaded himself there, thinking that a bunch of his enemies had attacked the house. I stealthily went inside and closed the door behind me. I grabbed all the bottles that were on the table, and was lucky enough to find several bags of marijuana and cocaine there, too. The silence was intense. The men couldn’t complain; their tongues were too stiff. All they could do was foam at the mouth. The ladies looked at me questioningly.

  “Raúl is missing,” I mouthed, pointing at what I thought was t
he bathroom door. The ladies went into formation, ready to attack. I told them to keep quiet and not move their tails, especially Valentina. I hid under the table, because I knew Raúl wouldn’t come out without a gun. I took a big sip of rum and waited. Over a minute passed. The lock on the door started to turn very slowly, very carefully. But Valentina couldn’t contain herself. Alerted by her hissing, he came out shooting, running towards the back bedroom. The blasts frightened the ladies. A shot blew Valentina’s head apart.

  “Help!” Raúl managed to yell just seconds before Carmela flew onto his neck. He fired again, but Beti caught his wrist. I took his gun, stuck it under my shirt and ran to the door. Loli stopped, seemingly paralyzed in front of Valentina’s corpse. She started to cry uncontrollably.

  “Let’s go!” I yelled.

  When I got to the driveway, carrying Valentina’s destroyed remains, several neighbours were peeking out through their windows and half-opened doors, but they disappeared as soon as they saw the other three ladies slithering behind me. We got to the yellow Chevrolet and left, heads bowed in sadness. The execution of Raúl Pineda was worth nothing compared to the death of our most beloved and beautiful Valentina.

  I went back to the spot I’d left less than an hour before. I was overcome with despair – the beating, the wealth of emotions and the death of Valentina had devastated me. I barely managed to put the cardboard back up in the windshield and find a place for my blanket before I fell asleep next to Valentina’s body. I had a strange dream that I tried to interpret with the help of the ladies the next morning. Don Jacinto (who was really me), Doña Sofía, their daughter, and Raúl Pineda were in a room lying on a bed. Pineda made love to the mother and then to the girl, but I didn’t react or feel the slightest bit of pain or disgust. It was as though I were watching an enjoyable movie, until Valentina appeared and wrapped her provocative body around me in an indescribably slippery, orgasmic embrace.

  I woke up in pain. My body was one big bruise. The ladies were in their hiding places, obviously exhausted by the previous evening’s activities. I wondered what we’d do with Valentina’s corpse. I got out of the car and stretched. It was early. I looked for a newsboy to buy the paper. To my huge surprise, I saw that we were on the front page. The headline read SNAKE INVASION and below that, CHAOS IN THE CITY: DOZENS DEAD AND INJURED. A picture of the gas station in flames covered most of the front page and beside it were two small photographs of the posh lady from the mall and the line of bodies at Raúl Pineda’s house. I hurried back to the car.

  “Look at this!” I shouted once I’d got back in the yellow Chevrolet. “We’re on the front page!” The ladies didn’t understand my joy. “We’re important!” I insisted. “We’re in all the headlines. Don’t you know what this means?”

  They were on tenterhooks. I knew it would make no sense to try to convince them of the importance of being front-page news – a privilege normally reserved for politicians, criminals, and similar people. The ladies showed no interest in being a part of that riffraff. But there we were, nearly dominating the national news section. There were articles and interviews with witnesses who described deadly snakes, a bearded beggar and a yellow Chevrolet. I read a statement by Deputy Commissioner Lito Handal, who was in charge of the investigation, with particular interest. “Due to the unusual nature of the crimes, Handal believes they may be the work of a criminal mastermind, probably an insane snake charmer,” the article read. “The Deputy Commissioner assured the public that there are already solid clues leading to the perpetrators of these heinous acts,” it continued. “He stated that the night before last, an officer attempted to detain the occupant of a Chevrolet similar to the one described by witnesses, but that the suspect managed to flee the scene.” There were two small photographs of Officer Dolores Cuéllar and Niña Beatriz Díaz, who said the car in question had been parked in front of Mrs. Díaz’s store for two weeks, but that after Officer Cuéllar’s inspection two nights ago, the yellow Chevrolet had disappeared. Further on, the reporter mentioned me by name as a probable victim who had been kidnapped by the owner of the car and of the snakes. I felt flattered. It was the first time in my life that I’d ever been in the newspaper. On another page there was a sketch of the man with the snakes and the yellow Chevrolet. It was a combination of Don Jacinto’s face and my own. The most shocking picture inside had been taken in the downtown area.

  I was delighted. I forgot all about the ladies, my aching bones and Valentina’s body. How could we have caused such a commotion in so little time? I read all the information on our whereabouts. The editorial called for a tightening of the city’s security to prevent just any madman from plunging it into chaos. There was another article on the murder of Doña Sofía Bustillo, who had been savagely stabbed in her home. Her maid was also dead, but she was a victim of multiple snakebites. Based on that information, Deputy Commissioner Handal believed the crime was connected to the events that had shaken the public. The most sinister part of the investigation was the “massacre” of seven detectives from the Intelligence and Narcotics Department (DICA) including Chief Detective Raúl Pineda, in whose home the officers had been attacked by snakes.

  “Ladies,” I said, “I think we’re going to have to hibernate for a while. Everyone must be looking for our yellow Chevrolet right now.”

  I took the cardboard down from the windshield and the windows. Two people were already looking at the car from the sidewalk. When they saw me moving around, they went down the road. I needed to find a covered garage or a reliable repair shop to leave the Chevrolet for a few days, until people forgot about all this and we could drive around the streets again. We took advantage of the early hour and headed out of the city, looking for the road that led to the top of the volcano. I was in luck – I didn’t run into any police cars. Few cars drove around this rural area dotted with enormous mansions that belonged to politicians and the filthy rich. As I passed an enormous stone wall, behind which the top of a large mansion could be seen, I saw that the iron gate was being opened automatically. I manoeuvred so quickly the guard had no time to react. I rammed him and he fell across the windshield. I stopped the Chevrolet by crashing it into a Mercedes Benz that was getting ready to leave the property. A bodyguard jumped out of the back seat holding a submachine gun. I threw myself to the car floor, opened the door and shouted to the ladies to be careful. The bodyguard shot out the windshield, but was quickly neutralized by Carmela. The driver tried to back up, but Beti was already inside the car. An elegant-looking man, like the kind you see on television, got out of the car and ran towards the mansion, but Loli got him before he reached the door. The guard was lying on the ground, badly wounded and terrified at the sight of Beti. I asked him how to close the gate. There was a remote control in the Mercedes, he stammered, on the ceiling behind the sunroof. The driver was convulsing.

  “What a garden!” I yelled.

  There were two more gleaming cars in front of the mansion. Hysterical screams were coming from the front rooms. I hurried in. Beti bit the guard and slipped ahead of me. “That’s Don Abraham Ferracuti . . .” I said, stepping over the body of the famous politician and banker, who was much more purple and contorted than he looked on the TV news. Two maids were rolling around on the floor of an incredibly luxurious room, the likes of which I’d only ever seen in movies. A beautiful older lady, wrapped in a silk dressing gown, was howling in pain on the stairs, a cordless telephone at her feet. The young girl who had locked herself in her room was screaming at the top of her lungs. She must have been trying to call for help, I thought. I took out Raúl Pineda’s gun and shot out the lock. Beti angrily turned to face me, as though my firing bothered her. I pushed the door open and just as I thought, the young girl was dialling the phone with trembling hands. She stopped when she saw Beti.

  “Get that animal out of here! Help!” she screamed, and threw the phone at Beti. She was naked, just out of the bath, her blonde hair still dripping. She was lovelier than any woman I’d ever been with
. But Beti didn’t let me fantasize. She bit her over and over again on the calves, the thighs and the neck. I was amazed at how quickly her body became disfigured. I went downstairs. There was a place set in the dining room. A coffeemaker bubbled in the kitchen. Carmela was in front of the door to the servants’ area.