For a few moments, the church showed Finn its face—circular stained glass windows set like two eyes in a pale skull and a thick wooden door with its iron ring a gaping, hungry mouth. The sun shone bright in the afternoon sky, glinting off the fiery red glass, and in the thin high-altitude air, Finn felt as though the church were weighing him up. The door opened and stretched the mouth into a lopsided grin. A priest in a cassock stepped out as Sophie stopped at a small café with tables arranged on a patio. She looked up at a fat-bellied bird with tiny wings and a long beak painted on a wooden sign above the words “Los Colibríes.” She appeared spooked, even more so than Finn.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
She paused before shaking her head and picking out a place to sit. Here, too, people stared at them. Finn thought his mother might disappear under the table as she took ages to position her backpack on the floor and rummage in its pockets. Tired of standing beside her, he pulled up a chair.
At last she straightened, her face pink.
“Mom . . .”
She frowned.
“Maybe you should wait here while I go look for somewhere to stay?” he suggested.
She looked around slowly, scanning the square for possibilities. “We may as well get something to eat. Like you said, we’ll figure it out.”
A middle-aged man wearing a shirt tucked into an apron and khaki trousers came over to take their order. When he saw Sophie, his greeting trailed off and he drew in a loud breath, not quite a gasp but close enough.
She ordered coffee and asked Finn what he wanted.
“I’ll have a Coke, please,” he said in Spanish, but the man couldn’t care less what he wanted.
The muscles around the server’s jaw had slackened like a basset hound’s. A stubby pencil quivered above his wire-bound notebook. He bowed a little as he backed away from their table, turned when he got to the patio doors, and hastened back into the restaurant.
Finn watched his mother carefully. A half hour ago, Sophie had slipped from sight into the moss, lichen, pine needles, mile-high hanging vines, and wild creepers, and she was different when she returned. In the last few miles of their journey, he’d given up trying to find out why she seemed distracted, as every banal attempt he made at conversation belly flopped into silence. She’d stared out of the window, and eventually he’d resorted to playing with his phone, thankfully finding spotty reception.
The server came back with their drinks, and Sophie asked where they could find a place to stay for a few nights. He muttered something incoherent under his breath and stumbled in his hurry to get away.
“For God’s sake!” Sophie said. “What’s wrong with everyone?” She sipped her coffee and grimaced. “Oh, that’s bitter. Do me a favor, Finn: get some sugar and while you’re at it, ask where we can find a hotel.”
He was about to get up when a stocky older man with faded red hair came over to their table, adjusting the collar of his shirt and navy-blue Windbreaker. Speechless as the man who had first served them, he appeared shocked to see Sophie.
She moved restlessly in her chair. “Did I do something wrong, after I got off the bus?” she said to Finn. “Offend someone?” Her voice rose. She lifted her face and spoke to the red-haired man. “My son and I are having something to drink. Is that all right?” A note of fear crept into her voice. She met it with anger. “I would like some sugar, and we were wondering where we could find a place to spend the night.”
The man found his voice. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry if we appear to be rude.” He tried a smile that failed to convince Finn. “Of course you may have some sugar, as much as you like.” He called, “Manco!”
He spoke good English, and Sophie sagged with relief.
“Rufo Merida Salazar,” he said, extending his hand and briefly clasping Sophie’s. “Governor of Colibrí and owner of Los Colibríes.”
“Governor?” she said. “Oh. We’re pleased to meet you. I’m Sophie, and this is my son, Finn.”
The man nodded and shook Finn’s hand, his grip strong, fingers callused.
They exchanged brief pleasantries about the journey and the spectacular view. He asked if he could sit with them, and Sophie said of course.
Manco returned with sugar, a small carafe of red wine, and a plate of salted white corn and broad beans.
“With my compliments,” the governor said.
Most of the people who sat at tables around them appeared to be regulars.
Three tousled men, possibly some kind of news crew, spoke German, drank beer, and smoked. A video camera sat on one side of the table alongside a box of Marlboros. One of them wore a vest that bulged with batteries, cassette tapes, and microphone cables. They noticed Finn and Sophie, but unlike other patrons, their interest was fleeting.
Off the hook for the moment, Finn shifted his attention and half listened to snatches of conversation he could make out from nearby tables.
“You’re visiting from the United States?” the governor asked.
“Yes. We’re from San Francisco,” Sophie said.
“San Francisco? A beautiful city.”
“Everyone says that.” She smiled. “Have you been there?”
“No, no, perhaps someday. You’ve traveled far . . . you’ve come for the fiesta?”
Sophie hesitated. The question, more than an expression of polite interest, probed. The governor’s charm belied the cold in his eyes.
“The fiesta,” she said. “When is it? Can you tell us about it?”
Their timing was perfect, he told them. The festival would take place in less than a week. “We celebrate independence from the Spanish with drinking and music and laughter. Then there are the bulls and, of course, what everybody comes here to see, the condor, who is the sacred messenger to our ancestral gods.” He leaned in close. “It is a magnificent sight to see such a bird ride the bull. It’s our way of pretending we got the better of our conquerors in the end.”
Sophie quickly glanced across at Finn. He’d been absently looking around and tossing snacks into his mouth, but now he stared at the governor. She could feel his hostility spread like a spilled drink. To avoid the launch of an inappropriate debate, she asked the man whether he could recommend a place to stay, a hotel perhaps, or a hostel.
“There are no hotels in Colibrí,” he said apologetically. “Something I hope to remedy soon. Most people stay with friends or camp close by, near the horses. But you aren’t campers, I think.”
Sophie glared at Finn. He had to have known this.
“We’re happy to camp,” he said.
“We are?” Sophie arched an eyebrow.
“We just need a tent.”
“No,” she said. “It’s freezing. The last thing we need is a tent.”
“We can make a plan. It’s not like we have a choice. It’s too late to catch the bus out of here. It’s already gone.” Finn turned to the governor. “Hasn’t it?”
“I believe so. But you mustn’t worry. I’ll see what I can arrange. If you’ll excuse me, please, have another coffee.”
He left them to cross the street, and the same young man who had passed them before drew up on his squeaking bicycle. Slighter than Finn and not as tall, he had wild thick black hair that would break a comb’s teeth. Bracing the bike with his foot, he stared at Sophie.
“¡Hola!” he said.
Finn nodded and Sophie returned the greeting.
“You are visiting, from America?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You’re welcome here. I would like to be your guide. I can show you things no one else can. Yes?”
He grinned at her and suddenly, gazing at him, Sophie felt a jolt of electricity, as though a storm had gathered overhead, heavy with clouds and thunder and lighting up the sky.
He broke the connection and said to Finn, “You have an iPhone?”
Finn gave him a what’s-it-to-you look, and Sophie flinched. They were vulnerable here, out of their depth, and virtually stranded. Before she
could jump in with some lame, polite response on Finn’s behalf, the young man said, “I’m going to get an iPhone. Someday.”
“Congratulations,” Finn said softly.
Sophie glared at him again, unable to comprehend his rudeness. What had gotten into him?
“I have a phone, but it’s not . . .” Their would-be guide broke off when he saw Rufo headed toward them and left with an abrupt squeal of bicycle wheels.
The governor scowled as he watched him ride away. “I hope he didn’t bother you,” he said. “Alberto has a crazy imagination. He’s just a boy, really. Don’t pay too much attention to him.”
He opened up a space for Sophie to fill with details of their brief conversation, but she chose to remain silent and instead returned his expectant, quizzical stare.
Rufo shrugged and said, “Okay, so when you’re ready, I’ve arranged for you to stay at the school, which is closed for the holiday. It’s just nearby, a three-minute walk.”
The school was a compact cluster of buildings built on a slope that dropped away from the main street. Dry stone walls separated levels into terraces linked by concrete steps and pathways. A two-story structure showed signs of recent renovation: piles of bricks, mounds of sand and gravel, piping, and wooden planks rested on the grass beside the path. Mud pits made of cinder blocks were lined with tarpaulins, and adobe bricks that had been removed from their frames were drying in neat rows near several bales of straw.
Improvements were being made to the library, Rufo explained. They picked their way through the rubble to a set of double doors that opened into a hallway and a flight of stairs. The German news crew, along with a few visitors from neighboring villages, occupied a ground-level classroom, where foam mattresses and sleeping bags had replaced the desks. The governor led Sophie and Finn up the stairs to an office. They stood to one side to make way for two men who moved furniture and installed the wire bed frames they would sleep on.
They’d be comfortable here for a few days, the governor told them, and there was a bathroom at the end of the corridor.
TWELVE
Gregory sweated in his sleep, nightmares welding together near and distant horrors. Nita lay beneath his scalpel, tattoo ink oozing from her pores. As fast as he cut and swabbed, it welled, feasting on her tender skin and causing her to writhe and shriek in agony. In his sleep Gregory wept. He even promised to attend Father Alfonso’s Mass if only he could sleep like the dead.
As soon as he woke, he changed his mind and dismissed the night. But he grew haunted and melancholy and took to staring blindly at things, not knowing how much time had passed, not caring.
Most often a walk or a ride on Coco or Tomás invigorated him. But the hike down to the village as he set out to bargain or plead for Esmeralda, the mare he hoped to save, sapped his strength. His boots, snug about his ankles, steadied him, but now and again he stumbled on the steep slope. He draped the bridle he would use to bring the old horse back with him over his shoulder.
She wasn’t in the paddock with the other village horses.
Gregory strode through the streets. Many people were drinking as Independence Day drew close. He nodded at those he passed and noted their silence as they watched him go by. A guard leaned against a wall of one of the houses, his rifle slung across his back.
At any other time, Gregory would have spoken to people about their families, their health, and the tuber and grain crops of the high slopes. They must have sensed his purpose and the anger that drove him to seek out Esmeralda’s owner.
Predictably, Gregory found Rufo at Los Colibríes, sitting outside at a table with a woman and a young man. The strangers had their backs to Gregory, but as he drew near, the woman turned her face toward the sun.
Shock immobilized Gregory, almost as much as it had a year ago, when they’d brought the body of the woman who resembled Nita to his door. He had tried hard to file those unresolved events away, to be visited only in sleep, where dreams got the better of him.
The timing of this new woman’s appearance, so close to Independence Day, unnerved him. She brought with her both light and dark; seeing her caused an eruption of breath-stealing delight and a twisting clutch of terror. Caught between extremes that made chaos of his intentions, he stood a few feet away, heart racing as he considered turning back.
Too late. Rufo had spotted him, and now the strangers turned to face him.
She was Nita, and she wasn’t. Now that she had him in her startled, wide-eyed gaze, she drew him to her the way fluttering does a hungry cat.
Gregory slowly approached. Every step brought him closer to a stronger, more vibrant version of Nita. Her features, as he remembered them, were here now, but more so than Nita’s had ever been. There was always something temporary about Nita, and even if he’d spent his whole life with her, he’d still have had a sense that he’d borrowed her.
There was nothing ethereal about this woman. It occurred to him that if Nita had been sketched in disappearing ink, a swift hand could trace the same lines in bold strokes to capture the woman who sat eating breakfast with Rufo.
The governor’s voice was overloud. “Gregory! ¡Hola!”
A convulsion of fury caught Gregory off guard, not easy to control. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He wanted to turn their table over, hear the mugs and plates crash, take Rufo by the throat, and in one decisive instant, send the man to hell. His hands trembled with the urge to bury them in the woman’s hair (the hair that Nita had lost), draw her head back, squeeze her jaw, distort her features with rough fingers as though she were modeling clay, and erase every trace of Nita from her bones, skin, and eyes.
Gregory tore his gaze away and caught the confusion in the face of the young man who sat beside her. He drew a searing breath and apologized. “I don’t mean to intrude,” he said. “I have business with the governor.” Now he noticed that the woman’s eyes were different from Nita’s, dark blue, not the changeable shades of mercury.
And throughout these strange, suspended moments, Rufo’s smile, tinged with sadism, never wavered.
“Rufo,” Gregory said, his voice ragged. “I’ve come for Esmeralda.”
“You’ve come for Esmeralda.” Rufo lifted his napkin and dabbed his mouth. Then he held up his hand, a gesture that drew everyone’s attention. He raised his voice so he could easily be heard above the stifled conversations of the people who sat nearby. “Would you care to explain exactly what you mean by that? You’ve come for Esmeralda?”
“You know what I mean. I’ve come to buy her.”
Rufo sneered. “Gregory Vásquez Moreno, savior of beast and bird and all of us—our doctor—from the kindness of his heart. He has come yet again, as he does every year, to buy a doomed horse. To make savages of us as he pleads for change. Cholo.” He spat the word. Gregory was a cholo, having moved from where he’d been born and settled in a place he no longer belonged. But many people were cholos today, and only Rufo’s bitterness framed the insult. “You try so hard to set yourself apart, you shame us.” He turned his back on Gregory. “You are no more civilized than I, my friend.”
“Rufo—” Gregory began.
But the governor wouldn’t let him speak. “He thinks he’s better than us. He owns a good piece of land, and that sets him above us. We’re barbarians, primitive. In his mind, we’re stuck in the Dark Ages. He won’t tell you that, he’d never admit it, but I’m telling you. The doctor is educated. Worldly. He made some clever investments and has never looked back. He’s behind the renovations to the school library. They say”—he dropped his voice—“they say he can talk to the gods, and if you can believe it, they listen to him.” Rufo’s face, ugly with the truth he had the sudden courage to reveal, relaxed. He mumbled something into his coffee. “Sit down, Doctor.”
Gregory didn’t move. “I haven’t come to argue. I want to pay for Esmeralda and go.”
“It’s too late. They’ve already taken her.”
Gregory persisted. “Then let me bring her back.
Please. It will not be a great loss if I take her.”
“No, but maybe you will learn. You will learn that your money cannot make miracles. You will learn that you have no power—that you can’t change what we’ve been doing for two hundred years. You’re arrogant and misguided.” Rufo lifted his cup. When Gregory just stood there, the governor added, “Hear this, you ineffectual prick, because I’ll say it only once. Carrying on the way you do? You don’t only shame us, you shame yourself, and Nita.”
With that, Gregory grabbed Rufo by the lapels of his Windbreaker and hauled him out of his chair. Taken by surprise, the governor pulled away and, stumbling back, overturned the table. The strangers staggered out of the way, and people scattered as Gregory dragged Rufo across the shattered ceramic plates and leftover food.
Rufo broke Gregory’s hold on him and lashed out with his fists. Gregory fell, and the governor kicked him repeatedly in the ribs until Gregory grabbed his ankle and toppled him. With a knee on Rufo’s chest, Gregory wrestled the man’s face to one side with a flat hand and mashed it into the concrete.
It took the combined effort of four men to pull Gregory off the governor. He and Rufo stood panting, straining to get loose so they could tear into each other again.
“Rufo, for God’s sake,” Manco said. “Let him have the damn horse. Use another one.”
“No.” Rufo spat a bloody glob at Gregory’s feet. “It’s too late. Go home, Moreno. You’re finished.”
“You’ve said many things today you’ll regret,” Gregory said. “Damn fool!”
“I regret nothing.”
The woman stood to one side and held on to her son. Her fear acted like a splash of ice water in Gregory’s face.
“I’m all right,” he said. “Let me go.” He jerked his arms free.
“Rufo?” Manco said warily.
The governor nodded curtly, and the men released him.
Gregory felt a gentler hand on his shoulder.
“Come,” someone said. “Come away. Come.” It was Father Alfonso.
Grave of Hummingbirds Page 7
