“Let’s split, man.”
Johnny steered us past the women’s rust heap, out of the stream, and up the cliffside road. The black vehicle followed right behind us.
“I’m thinking that Eldorado is too big and too wide to handle this road as fast as we can. It’s more powerful, so we’ll have to watch our tail, though. Hang on, I’m not waiting for them to start playing tag.”
“They’ll be eating our dust, won’t be able to see.” But I didn’t really believe that, just hoped it. Those eyes had looked as if they could burn through souls.
Johnny stepped on the gas. I gripped the arm rest with one hand, curled my other fingers under the edge of the seat. The cliffside drop to my right became a hollow fear punching up through my groin.
I yelled, “You just drive, man. I’ll look out for them.”
Not letting go of my grip, I craned my neck to see the black vehicle plowing through clouds of swirling dirt, keeping pace. Our car swerved around a corner, wheels bumping over loose stone. Alarmed, I looked over at Johnny, then back at our pursuer.
Nothing. In a blink, the humongous monster of a Cadillac no longer trailed us. Instead of thinking it had slowed and given up or was hurtling down onto rocks a hundred feet below, I thought of Jenny and Doctor Steel on an empty street outside Rolly’s apartment and Jenny jump-roping as if everyone she passed were ghosts from a different world. I remembered Hank leaving me alone on a bus and Gerald Pigeon stepping into a bathroom in the Cambridge courthouse.
I didn’t say anything to Johnny, just stared out the back window in shock, wondering what black hole bizarro world I had been sucked into as I clung to the door handle of a car flying along a godforsaken killer road, escaping from a robbery attempt and fleeing from my unbidden thoughts of rape. A gun lay in the tray between the two of us. We were both completely naked, dust and grime caking onto our wet bodies.
And a black Cadillac that had appeared out of nowhere, had just disappeared back to nowhere.
Chapter 8
After we checked into a hotel in the city of Caracas, I hid in my bathroom, smoking pot for three days. Remembering how Johnny had gone through my stuff and packed my bags at the first beachfront hotel we had stayed in, I wanted to smoke my complete stash before we continued our journey.
As I lay around trying to make sense of the Cadillac, the demon eyes, the strange squawk, the curandera, and the myth of Santa Paloma, those unsettling thoughts kept being scrapped by the fearful discoveries I had made about myself at the stream. The memory of the two women huddling, exposed, and my brief, but hypnotic, desire to possess them froze in my brain. I couldn’t deny my reaction to being suckered by the women. I had felt humiliated for being falsely enticed by them, and that feeling of emasculation transformed into a desire to strike back at them, using the cock they had denied.
Remembering that moment of craving revenge yet being aroused at the same time made me physically ill. I thrashed and groaned, further confusing myself by dredging up the memories of terrified excitement when I stayed inside Brenda as she slashed her knife at me.
And somewhere in my thoughts, Greg sobbed onto my shoulder about his monstrous crime in Vietnam.
I knew from the fight in the Poconos that I could lose myself to violence. The frightening possibilities of what could have happened at the stream paralyzed me into near catatonia. Johnny had been waving a gun around, had fired it into the air moments before. What if he had experienced the same crazy moment of sexual retribution I had? With his gun, my desire for revenge, and the women’s nudity, perhaps we had escaped a tragedy by a miraculous fluke.
And somewhere in my thoughts, Teresa grieved, weeping by my side night after night.
We had held each other, healing our wounds together after the Poconos attack. When she cried at the terror of the brutality against her, I ran my hand through her hair, kissing her gently, telling her I loved her. When tears ran down my face at the horror of my own violence, she had comforted me with tender words and soft sparkles of eternity in her eyes.
And here I was thousands of miles away, and a year later, wishing for the moments of her being in my arms, whispering to me how everything would work out—that I did what I had to do. But the truth was different this time. Who would she be soothing? In that stream I glimpsed a creature inside me with no understanding of compassion or justice, just violent retribution and animalistic supremacy. Like Greg and Gus and Drake.
I needed help to face my self-discovery and would light another cigarette, roll another joint, raid the mini bar.
I tried sketching to involve my mind creatively, attempting to unravel my mental turbulence and escape the guilt, but ended up crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my head while I listened to samba music through a stoned haze.
Johnny hung out at the pool all day, then would pound on my door to rouse me each evening. He drove me around the city, pointing out statues and murals, whistling and waving at beautiful women, introducing me to strangers and friends, all while constantly reminding me I had an assignment to work on and I’d better snap out of my funk. Invariably, we’d stop at some nice restaurant, stuff ourselves with fine food, and drink way too much.
One afternoon, he dragged me down to the parking lot and, grinning like the maniac I now knew him to be, showed me our new vehicle—a solid, safari-type Land Rover large enough to fit at least eight people.
“The devil dance is about three hours away on terrible, terrible roads. We should have no problems in this Rover. And for our grand expedition to your girlfriend’s ranch, we definitely needed something more durable than the Barracuda. I also bought us a tent, two hammocks, some strong cable, a shovel, food, water, and another extra tire. Survival stuff, just in case. The roads will be very difficult.”
“How does Cecilia get there?”
“Her family takes a plane most of the way. They land in some field used as an airstrip, then travel by jeep. Don’t worry, we’ll be all right.”
“How far is it?”
“Maybe fifteen hours on the good roads, then who knows? It’s rainy season. We should expect mud.” He lit a cigarette, studied me for a moment. “You handled yourself well in that altercation at the stream, so I’m going to tell you some of our other problems you should be aware of.”
I wanted to ask him if he had seen Filomena’s or the driver of the Cadillac’s demon eyes but held off, knowing how insane it would sound if he hadn’t. “Like what?”
“First, the easiest one—shave off your beard. We’re going to pass through some military checkpoints.”
“They don’t like beards?”
“No. It’s suspect. Castro has guerrillas in this country. A large bushy beard like yours is a symbol to be wary of. When we head to the ranch, we’ll be in areas where revolutionaries could conceivably be, though they generally hide in the mountainous regions.”
“You mean Che Guevara could be out there?”
“Possibly. Second, the three bandit women know our plans. I told them all about you and our travels when we were partying. Filomena said they were planning on being in San Francisco de Yare for the devil dance, so we have to be constantly aware and ready for any surprise they might have for us.” He took a drag off his cigarette and let the smoke seep out through his always viewable, gleaming teeth.
“They going to be part of the dance?”
“They’re professional singers and performers. Unless they chicken out, I’m sure we’ll see them. It’s a small town.”
“I doubt they’ll want to party with us again.”
“Ha, ha. Anyway, the last thing is snakes. If you see a snake, consider it to be poisonous, except for the anaconda. With them, you shit yourself, then they squeeze you to death.”
“Sounds like fun times. We’re going into some wild country, right?”
“Ha, ha. Yes, wicked women in Yare, guerrillas in the mount
ains, snakes, caiman, and jaguars everywhere else.”
“Caiman?”
“Like an alligator.”
As we drove out of the hotel parking lot, I was curious to where Johnny kept the gun but didn’t want to ask. I desperately needed to believe that I didn’t have to resort to violence to solve problems.
He seemed to sense what was on my mind. “There are two machetes in the back, the gun is under my seat, and there’s a rifle stored in with the tent. Not only is this rough territory, I feel you attract trouble, almost like some crisis is waiting for you around every corner.”
Chapter 9
On the way to San Francisco de Yare, the Rover towed three cars out of road-wide muddy craters. Encouraged on by an old weatherworn farmer sitting on his burro, Johnny and I pushed and pulled on a small bus with one wheel stuck in a marshy roadside ditch. After finally freeing the vehicle, we watched it sputter on towards the festival as we shared a cigarette with, and took a Polaroid of, the ancient, toothless peasant.
Dragging on one of my Kools, he stopped his chatter and coughed. By his expression and spasmodic wheeze, I knew without Johnny’s translation exactly what he then said to me, “Americans smoke this? What is it? Donkey shit?”
Despite his criticism, he was excited and grateful when I let him keep the pack with six cigarettes still in it.
Outside of Yare, Johnny parked the Land Rover on the edge of the road behind a line of cars. We could see a cathedral tower looming above trees a couple of hundred yards away. A kid with a frog-faced, horned mask said he would watch our car for a fee. Johnny handed him some coins, and we hiked into town.
“Kid is making a fortune today.”
Vendors with blow-up toys, figurines, masks, and assorted foods accosted us on the outskirts of the main plaza. The town was mobbed with tourists. Music played off in the distance. Johnny pointed to a black Cadillac Eldorado parked near a cantina on a narrow street.
“What do you think, Deets? Same car?”
Monsters everywhere. Why did Filomena tell me where the car keys were in the stream? Was the robbery all an act?
We found a place to stand and watch the red-robed devil dancers. Hundreds of strange, imaginative beings cavorted in the center of the town. Some shuffled in a line dance together, while others jumped, ran, or spun in circles. All were singing or chanting, portraying impish devils in a crowded, chaotic, surreal festival. I immediately saw the similarity of the masks and the creatures I had conjured up from my adventures in Monster Alley. A bug-like face painted with black and orange stripes had a single foot-long spiral horn coming out of its forehead. Romping next to him, a three-headed ogre laughed and skipped. A crocodile man with clacking jaws moved with mock threatening gestures. His lemon green maw contrasted vibrantly with large, purple circular eyes and four stark-white antlers jutting from his head. Yellow polka-dotted fangs protruded from a fellow dancer’s sky blue jaguar mask. Uniform red capes and robes twirled. Girls and boys, dressed in white, screamed and ran ahead of the devils.
I had packed my cameras, film, and sketch pad, along with an English-Spanish dictionary, in a knapsack. I hauled out the 35 millimeter Nikon and, occasionally alternating with the Polaroid, began snapping pictures.
A demonic monkey head flashed across my line of sight. I adjusted the focus quickly to get a shot of a set of orange horns rising up from a tangle of silver rope alongside giant, flame-colored ears. Smoke puffed out from a fat cigar stuck to the lips of the mask’s cruel mouth hole.
The dancer was a short, stocky man. He lingered in front of me, taunting the crowd. Another robed figure appeared in my viewfinder. The newest devil spat water from his mouth. He wore a wildly speckled, crudely designed fish mask with flopping cloth wings jutting straight out from its cheeks. A spine of ragged, rusty metal ran along the top of the fish head, disappearing into the robes covering his neck.
The two of them cavorted, with the monkey demon climbing onto the fish man’s back. They spun and pranced in front of me before galloping off in pursuit of a group of young girls and boys who, in accordance with the festival’s script, were racing towards the steps of the town church.
So there it was—a monkey on the back of a winged fish. The iconic characters of the ceramic window box, over a thousand miles away in Monster Alley, had come to life. What did it mean? Clearly beyond synchronicity, I knew the scenario was plotted, planned to lure me. Intrigued, half-expecting to bump into Doctor Steel in the spinning sea of masked men, I followed the monkey-fish pair, immediately becoming swarmed by their fellow dancers. I lost sight of Johnny as I pushed deeper into the chaos of color and movement, concentrating on the movements of the monkey and the fish.
After the screaming children had fled into the church, a priest stepped out from its arched entrance onto a wide veranda overlooking the plaza. He read from the Bible, flipped holy water at the devils, and swung a smoldering thurible on a chain as he recited more prayers. The dancers fled in mock terror, running down side streets. As the priest finished his recital and the devil’s wailing faded in the distance, an expectant silence descended upon the tourists lining the square. With the dancers gone, I had ended up all alone at the bottom of the church steps. The priest looked momentarily perplexed with my unexpected presence at the climax of the ceremony. After flipping a page in his bible as if for instructions on how to rid the area of a final uncooperative devil, he chose to ignore me, instead raising his arms skywards in thanks for triumphing over the terrible, masked demons. A loud cheer filled the town as the crowd of rescued children streamed out of the church, laughing and singing, mixing with the onlookers.
A man pushing a cart filled with masks began calling out to the tourists, offering bargains on an assortment of horned creations.
Devil dancers, their masks pushed away, began filing back from the adjoining streets to join the revelers. The aroma of barbecue filled the air, and a group of musicians strumming ukelele-like instruments set up a lively background of harmony.
I stepped rapidly away, wondering about the church’s use of smoke and water in their ceremonies as I chased down a street where I had seen the puffing monkey and spitting fish duo disappear from the celebration, their masks still in place.
I was about a block behind the pair when three women came around a corner directly in front of me. Filomena, Miss Bikini, and Andrea. Bikini, fully dressed, looked at me drunken and cross-eyed, showing no signs of recognition. Andrea’s mouth flew open, and her eyes immediately dropped to the ground, not wanting to meet mine. I had little time to reflect on her reaction, as my focus went to Filomena. The whatever-she-was woman glared, trying to burn me with her hot mixture of anger and loathing. Cursing and threatening me, she flipped open her purse and drew out a revolver. Andrea yelped in fright and took off back around the corner. Bikini buried her face against a nearby wall and began to cry and wail.
Filomena continued her tirade as she aimed her pistol at me, approaching me until she shoved the gun barrel against my chest. She snarled like she had during the battle in the stream. The flicker of red in her eye contrasted with the pastel pinks, blues, and greens of the painted adobe buildings around me.
I’ve never dreamed of dying here before.
The curandera of Santa Paloma had placed her palm in the same area where Filomena now rammed cold metal. I began to sweat from the suddenly noticeable heat of the day and the fear of a bullet hole in my heart. My thoughts, no longer cognizant of the colors of a foreign street, had become a resounding, incomprehensible scream.
Doctor Steel was going to miss witnessing my demise. What had he accomplished? All this traveling and intrigue just to have me shot dead by a crucifix-dangling demon?
Then my attention was drawn to the short and stocky, monkey-masked devil dancer striding up the street towards us, smoke billowing from nostrils, arms waving as he yelled in a commanding voice. The gun barrel’s pressure lessened, and
Filomena’s expression suddenly looked weary. She slowly turned around, releasing me.
I stepped into a nearby open-aired corner store. Not much protection, but at least my attacker wasn’t focusing on me. Taking in my surroundings, I spotted Andrea. She had stopped running and was watching the altercation from a side street. Curious bystanders, drawn to the commotion, peered out doorways and windows. Monkey Man gestured vehemently at Filomena, berating her in Spanish while motioning for her to leave.
“Vete de aquí.”
She waved at him dismissively, put away her gun, and looked over his head. Barely able to squeeze down the narrow street, the black Eldorado came into view, slowing to a stop behind the red-robed, masked man. Filomena hauled Bikini woman from her puddle of tears, and the two of them climbed into the car. Bikini’s face was a rictus of drunken terror.
Monkey Man pounded the hood of the Cadillac and barked out one incomprehensible word. At that moment I thought the entire universe roared as the giant car leaped forward and sped away down the narrow street.
I crossed over to where Andrea still stood. She held a trembling hand to her mouth, staring in fear as the masked monkey turned and walked away from the encounter. When she saw me, she backpedaled.
“No wait, Andrea. Peace.” I flashed her the peace sign, then held my hands out, open palms facing her, in hope she would see I meant no harm.
She turned to run, but I managed to grab her wrist.
She twisted and thrashed. Thankfully, and I don’t know how the word came to me, but it did. I calmly said, “Paz. Paz. Peace.” She pulled her arm away from my grip but didn’t try to elude me.
“Who’s that monkey?”
She scowled in response.
I pointed to where Monkey Man had been and tickled my ribs in my best imitation of an ape, then made an exaggerated gesture of smoke being blown from my mouth. I raised my eyebrows questioningly.
Magic (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 2) Page 4