Midnight Cactus

by Bella Pollen

  ‘Is it?’ he says evenly.

  ‘All I know is that the whole world over, ordinary people feel trapped – imprisoned by fear and loneliness, shoring up a crumbling business, holding together a bad marriage; every tired housewife unloading her dishwasher dreams of escape. And they don’t have to be driven by poverty, they don’t have to be in danger and they don’t necessarily deserve your contempt.’ I get up angrily and walk to the cliff edge but his footsteps are close behind me.

  ‘Alice . . .’

  ‘It’s as though you want to believe it,’ I say, and I can’t keep the hurt from spilling into my voice. ‘Why do you want to believe it?’

  He spins me round. ‘Because there’s no return from a woman like you. Don’t you understand? You’ll take me and change the course of my life. You’ll fill every gap and hole I’ve opened up to lose myself, and then what?’

  I look at him helplessly.

  ‘Then what?’ he says fiercely and pulls me to him.

  His lips are dry, cool. I close my eyes. I’d forgotten. A woman leaves a man by degrees and I stopped kissing Robert a long time ago. Now I feel like a linnet who has cleared the winter twigs and cobwebs from her mouth and found she can sing again.

  26

  The road ahead is straight, empty. I lean my head dreamily against the window as mile after mile of shambolic dereliction flies by. Every so often, out of the sheer nothingness of the desert, something looms: a giant car-crushing business or an abandoned mining operation. A sign flies by. BUMP. It registers as a mere hiccup under the big truck as we roll on, east along the border to Douglas, a town about thirty miles from Nogales.

  Duval drives with his customary one hand on the wheel, elbow resting on the ledge of the open window. He’s been quiet for some time now, equally lost in thought. Every so often he glances at me and smiles and my heart twangs noisily like a guitar string that has been plucked and won’t stop reverberating. Under my clothes I feel the imprint of his hands like burn marks against my skin. I close my eyes and feel my cheek pressed against his back as he sleeps beside me. Through the windscreen, the sun rules a cloudless sky. There’s a succession of near-blinding flashes as it glints off the sides of hundreds of mobile homes, parked together in neat rows like a metal matchbox city. ‘Wow.’ I stare through the glass.

  ‘Desert rats,’ Duval says.

  People are moving between the trailers, engaged in some activity or another. On the edge of the road, a man lies on the hot earth looking up the backside of his motorbike.

  ‘How do they lead their lives? What do they do all day?’ It’s surely awe-inspiringly optimistic that humans should congregate and settle in such an inhospitable place.

  Duval shrugs. ‘They wake up every morning and go and see if they have any post or see if their disability cheque has come in, then they go back and have break-fast and a couple of cigarettes, maybe they fix something on the RV, a tube, a piece of exhaust, the feed for the propane.’ He winds up his window. ‘After that they doze in a nylon deck chair that they bought at a yard sale and soak up the reflected light from the sides of the RV, their feet up on all-weather green mats nailed down with spikes. They start drinking cheap beer at lunch. In the evening they do a little gambling, cards or bingo. Politics they talk about in terms of which ethnic minority they’d blow out of the universe if they had their finger on the button.’

  ‘Oh come on!’

  He glances in the rear-view mirror. ‘Trust me. You wouldn’t want to be a black guy in one of those places. You see them west of here, whole communities of these guys over in the yellow sands of Yuma; they roll up and down the dunes all day in those buggies, flying their American flags and waiting for some poor bastard to stumble over the border from Mexico so they can chase him till he drops in the sand.’

  ‘Jesus, Duval!’

  Neither of us speaks for a few miles. Then Duval reaches for his cigarettes off the dashboard.

  ‘I should never have let you come.’

  ‘I wanted to.’

  ‘What if I can’t keep you safe?’

  ‘If safety was what I was looking for, I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Against the glare of the sun, his eyes look like black discs.

  And I think to hell with it. Why is it we all spend so much of life subjugating every emotion, always covering ourselves? For what? To prove we don’t care? So that ultimately we can applaud ourselves for feeling less?

  ‘I think you know,’ I say and his eyes hold mine for an instant before he turns back to the road.

  Unlike Nogales, an all-singing, all-dancing border drama, Douglas, Arizona, feels like a town close to death. The streets are quiet except for an old campesino poppered into a vibrant striped shirt and a couple of nervy-looking youths bouncing on their hightops. Nevertheless we find La Mariposa almost immediately, a dark, low-ceilinged restaurant full of working Mexicans in cowboy hats. A sluggish wooden fan circulates cigarette smoke and coffee steam into a general feel-good haze. I stand behind Duval in the entrance and peer through the fog. In front of us, eight policemen are eating enormous platefuls of enchiladas smothered in sauce and cheese.

  ‘Over there.’ Duval’s gaze has settled on a table far to the back where a middle-aged man in a caramel-coloured suit is scanning the newspaper. ‘I’ll cut off my pinky without anaesthetic if that’s not the guy.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Winfred mentioned he was something of a snappy dresser.’ It had been Winfred’s voice that had woken us this morning, hissing with static on Duval’s radio. He’d finally set up a meeting with the informant he’d been so excited about finding and we’d barely had time to sneak back to Temerosa and grab a change of clothes.

  I follow Duval’s bemused glance down to the man’s feet, which are encased in a pair of two-tone shoes that look suspiciously like spats.

  ‘Good day, my friends,’ he says as we sit down, and if there’s an imperceptible raising of eyebrows at my appearance, they’re lowered quickly enough. He folds his paper with precision, laying it to one side and shaking our hands then motioning to the waiter for coffee.

  Post-introductions, Esteban segues easily into the familiar conversation of someone catching up with old dear friends after a prolonged absence. Life? Yes, well it wasn’t so bad. His family was healthy, and his job (quality-assessment manager for a medical supplies company) kept him busy. Politically, his country was even more isolationist since 9/11, and his hopes for Fox working some kind of economic magic were fading. While he talks, he studies us with small, inquisitive eyes and I get the impression he’s sizing us up, deciding just exactly how much information to divulge.

  ‘I hate Douglas,’ he confides. ‘Oh it’s no worse than any other border town but I hate it all the same. It’s dirty and disorganized, the population is always in flux.’ He waves at a couple of tourists through the window. The woman’s dimpled legs merge under her beige shorts. She’s wearing a canary-yellow sweater tied round her shoulders and a white sun visor. Her husband is equally ubiquitous. Bald, bland, a hand held protectively to his money belt, a pair of taupe chinos belted loosely under an unmistakable all-American gut.

  ‘Mexico produces twice the national product it needs and yet our people are starving.’ Esteban regards the Americans sorrowfully. ‘Corruption in my country is so pervasive we now are forced to rely on tourists like these for our legal economy. If we want our children to attend the local school, Americans are the ones who pay for it. Look at them! Searching for cheap souvenirs to give their grandchildren. Maybe they don’t even know there is another Mexico to be seen. Maybe this dirty little ciudad is all Mexico will ever represent to them, a big plate of guacamole, a mediocre margarita, and the homeland of their hired help. “Hey, those Mexicanos,”’ he tries an American accent, ‘“they sure know how to sweep!”’ He moves his elbow as the waiter puts a plate of huevos rancheros in front of him. ‘But, hey, what do you expect? Mexicans are no good. Our police are
corrupt. Our officials are on the take, border bandits rob and kill their own people. We are drug dealers, people smugglers and murderers. The rich live in splendour while the stomachs of the poor burn with hunger.’

  ‘Not your stomach, though,’ Duval remarks.

  Esteban laughs throatily. ‘Food is my religion.’ He wipes egg from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Do you believe in God, my friend?’

  ‘No,’ Duval says flatly.

  ‘And you?’ Esteban addresses me directly for the first time.

  Do I believe in God? The children are constantly asking me the same question. ‘I don’t know,’ I always tell them, and I don’t. I am religious up to a point. For instance, when I think of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I can picture God with his great flowing beard and long robes and I have no trouble picturing Jesus suffering on the cross, but when it comes to the Holy Ghost all I can think of is Casper, the friendly ghost, white, rotund, and happily whizzing round the room like a balloon from which someone has just released the air.

  ‘Who is more powerful,’ Emmy likes to ask, ‘God or the Queen?’

  ‘I don’t know, who?’

  ‘God,’ she squeals delightedly, ‘because God saved the Queen!’

  ‘I, myself, am a man of faith,’ Esteban is saying. ‘The gospel decrees if you have two coats and a man asks you for one because he’s cold – give him your coat! Not a bullet in the back!’

  ‘I understand you know someone I should talk to,’ Duval says.

  For the first time Esteban looks cagey. He glances round the restaurant, then leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘This Mexican you’re looking for ... El Turrón. He has been in prison for the last six years. He’s been gone from around here a long time.’

  ‘And now he’s out,’ Duval says flatly, ‘a free man.’

  ‘A free man, yes, but an angry one. Someone is interfering with his business. One of his men, a narcotraficante, has been using young girls to smuggle drugs. Unfortunately, two of them died. Two sisters. The drugs burst in the stomach,’ he explains for my benefit. ‘A month ago, this narcotraficante was also found dead. Now, only a few days ago, two of El Turrón’s coyotes were ambushed and locked into their own truck.’ He looks pointedly at Duval. ‘Perhaps you heard?’

  ‘What I heard was that the border was a better place without them.’

  ‘I might think so, and you might think so but not everyone would agree.’ Esteban takes a slim box from his jacket pocket and offers it to Duval.

  Duval puts up his hand.

  ‘My friend, you must be careful.’ Esteban holds a match to the end of his cigar. ‘You don’t bait the bear unless he’s chained. El Turrón is not a forgiving man. Find him before he finds you.’

  Duval looks at him coolly, then nods.

  Esteban sighs. ‘There’s this little mulo, Reuben. People have heard him talking.’ He turns the palms of his hands upwards. ‘People say he talks too much. Still, I believe he has other information you might be interested in hearing.’ He leans on his elbows. ‘Nogales. In the plaza. Can you be there this evening?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘He will come around seven o’clock.’

  Duval nods his head. ‘How will I know him?’

  ‘There is a small iglesia on the north side of the square. Sit on the bench closest to it. But don’t worry. Reuben will find you. Reuben can smell dólares americanos from many miles away.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Duval reaches into his pocket and draws out a small roll of bills, ‘let me pay for your breakfast.’

  ‘No, no.’ Esteban waves the money away.

  Duval looks at him enquiringly.

  ‘You help my people,’ he says simply, ‘and I’ll help you.’

  Ahead of us a mini twister moves across the road, leaving tumbleweeds spinning in its wake. On the back seat, Taco stirs. As I turn round to pinch his ear, he fixes me with his myopic squint, sucks in his tongue then drops it from his mouth again, where it hangs unnaturally long and thin, like a slice of carpaccio. The heat is intense, cloying. In the distance a lazy mist hangs over the Patagonia Mountains. I look for some orientation in the landscape; something to mark this mile from the last. We pass an iron bed, the remains of a fire, a charred shack.

  ‘It’s spooky here. Where are we?’

  ‘Parallel to the border.’ Duval turns the next corner then hits the brakes. The truck judders to a stop but it’s only when the dust begins to clear that I see why. The road ahead is blocked by a crude length of tree trunk acting as a barrier. Next to it, a military truck is parked.

  Half a dozen soldiers in green uniform slouch around in lackadaisical ennui. A couple are smoking cigarettes, leaning their shoulders against a tree. Only mildly interested at our approach, they toss their stubs carelessly, stretch an arm for their guns, then swiftly turn and point them straight at us.

  ‘My God,’ I say, alarmed. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Mexican Army,’ Duval replies briefly. Up close, the soldiers are startlingly young, their hair close cropped. ‘Military service,’ he adds, as though reading my thoughts. The soldiers keep their rifles trained on the dusty, smeared windscreen of the truck.

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Oh, I expect they just want to tell us a good way of getting that squished insect paste off the glass.’

  ‘Duval . . .’

  ‘Just follow my lead,’ Duval says and winds down his window.

  The first soldier steps round, his gun still raised. ‘¿Tiene marijuana?’

  Duval says something rapidly to them in Spanish.

  The soldier’s eyes flick to me, then back to Duval, uncertainly. The second boy starts probing under the truck with his rifle, then pokes it through the back window. Suddenly, Taco, who up until this point has seemed content to sleepily follow the action from a seated position, lunges towards him, barking ferociously. The boy jumps back in alarm.

  ‘Oh, man! Does he bite?’ he asks in good English.

  ‘Sure,’ Duval says, ‘but usually just babies and old people.’

  Involuntarily, the boy laughs.

  ‘¿Qué dijo?’ the other demands suspiciously.

  ‘Dijo que sólo muerde a bebés y a ancianos.’

  The first soldier lowers his gun and now regards Duval with rank curiosity.

  ‘Y usted habla inglés,’ Duval says.

  ‘Sí,’ the boy acknowledges without explanation. ‘So where you going? Nogales?’

  ‘Eventually, but we were about to stop and have something to drink on the way. Here . . .’ Duval hauls a six-pack of Coke from the back seat and casually hands it through the window. ‘Go ahead, take it, we have plenty.’

  The boy glances behind him. A little way off, an older soldier, and one of higher rank as evidenced by the insignia on his jacket, is following the proceedings closely from under a pair of sunglasses and a beret pulled over his forehead.

  ‘¿Su sargento?’ Duval asks.

  ‘Sí.’ The soldier waits for the nod from his superior then loops two fingers through the plastic casing of the six-pack.

  ‘So,’ Duval says with studied casualness, ‘are we okay?’

  Again the boy looks to his superior and waits for the nod. ‘We’re okay,’ he confirms and signals at the soldiers behind him to move the tree trunk. ‘¡Buena suerte!’

  Simon and Garfunkel are playing on the radio. Duval whistles along under his breath.

  ‘Why buena suerte?’

  ‘You know,’ he muses, ‘I never understood the lyrics to this song. Am I supposed to lay me down on the bridge? Under the bridge? Be the bridge?’

  ‘Good luck with what?’ I press.

  ‘And why is the poor water troubled? What could possibly be troubling it?’

  ‘What did you say when they asked if you had any marijuana?’

  ‘Is it perhaps a song about poaching off bridges, I wonder?’

  I punch him in the arm.

  ‘All right!’ he says, mo
ck offended. ‘I said why would I need marijuana when I had a beautiful, albeit vicious, English girl to keep me high.’

  ‘So chivalrous . . . What were they looking for, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, just rich tourists to rip off.’

  ‘And we didn’t fit the bill?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘So . . . good luck with what?’

  He sighs. ‘If you must know, I told them I was out scouting for a suitably romantic location to have my wicked way with you.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘Let’s just say it’s not the furthest thing from my mind today.’ He pulls the truck sharply off the track ignoring a bilingual sign commanding all vehicles stay on the road. ‘But right now, I want to show you something.’ He climbs out of the truck and I follow him to the edge of the hill. ‘See that clearing on the mountain?’ He points to a bald spot on the carpet of green in front of us. ‘Temerosa’s on the other side of that.’

  ‘It is?’ I stare at the horizon trying to make sense of the geography.

  ‘About fifteen miles if you were to walk straight over the top.’

  ‘Can you do that? Can you cross from here?’

  ‘People try. People die trying.’ He narrows his eyes against the sun. ‘Looks almost easy, doesn’t it? And it should be. There are no heat sensors, no fences, no motion detectors, not even the BP like to come out here. It’s a nasty, near-impossible bit of desert unless you know the way.’

  I stare at the great wall of mesquite and suddenly understand why he’s showing me. ‘This is where Benjamín crossed, isn’t it?’

  ‘At the beginning of the century ranches round here were immense old cattle outfits, both Mexican and English. They endlessly raided across their neighbours’ lands and shot at each other whenever anyone could be bothered. They stole cows, horses, women, and used a secret track through the mountains to escape with them. God knows how, but Benjamín stumbled on it during the course of one of his crossings. He’s the only one who knows it, but it takes you to the other ghost town that used to share the schoolroom with Temerosa – Black Mesa. There’s nothing left of it now, but in the last few years there have been so many casualties in this bit of desert that the Humanity Patrol put up a water tank there. If you can get to the water, it’s possible to make it on to Temerosa.’