“Everybody?”
“Yes. Invite everyone on the property. There are plenty of pigs. I can smell them from here. And take the truck into town and buy beer. And mescal. And make a pot of mole verde the size of one of those clay planters. In fact, you can use the planter if you haven’t got a big enough cauldron. Dig pits, gather mesquite wood, buy bags of cornmeal, give it out to anyone who can slap a tortilla. And let there be music!”
Marder didn’t know how much all this would cost, but he didn’t much care. The expression on Pepa Espinoza’s face was worth every peso.
* * *
Statch stood spellbound in front of the forge where the blacksmith, Bartolomeo Ortiz, was putting the finishing touches on a massive drill bit he had manufactured out of an old crankshaft and sections of automobile leaf springs. She was reflecting on something remarkable—that in one week’s time she had observed both the beginning and the end of the history of human beings making things out of metal. She gaped at the glowing steel on the anvil. As far as she could judge, it was a perfect artifact, a functional drill bit made entirely out of scrap and skill.
The drill itself was based on a motorcycle engine of some antiquity, dangerous as sin but perfectly suited to the task. Its cooling system was a kid with a water bucket and a ladle. Statch had appointed herself driller’s mate, had made some trivial improvements in the rig, and now, with the new bit in place, she threw her weight onto the A-frame to keep it from shifting as Arsenio, the driller, put the thing in gear. It roared, it threw mud and lubricant, it drilled. She was as happy as a pig in shit, and no cleaner. In twenty minutes water gushed: cheers, she hugged Arsenio, then she helped him cap the gusher with a spigot.
She walked down to the far end of the village, where Skelly was supervising a gang using the Komatsu to excavate what was going to be the drainage field for the septic system.
“We have water?”
“We do,” she said. “How’s this going?”
“Great. It’s amazing how some decent pay will turn these people into fucking Germans. No more mañana around here, no, sir! They’ll bring the piping in tomorrow, courtesy of your dad. And now could you tell me why he decided to start his own Peace Corps in … you know, I’m not even sure what they call this place.”
“Colonia Feliz, after the name of the house. I don’t know anything about what my father does. He’s always been a little secretive. Not as secretive as you—”
“I’m not secretive. Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right. As far as this place goes, I’m calling it midlife crisis, a bit late, but there it is. He hasn’t been exactly stable since Mom died. You talk to him and he’s somewhere else. But it’s her hometown. Maybe he wanted to recapture the golden years or whatever.”
“I get that,” said Skelly, “but why this house in particular? On this site.”
“What do you mean?”
“Check it out. It’s a fortress. One causeway, the house commands all the eastern approaches; the beach side is overwatched by cliffs. We have our own water and a diesel. With enough food, and if we train up the guys we have on hand, we could hold off a small army. That can’t be an accident.”
“Is that why you brought your cannon? You were expecting a little war?”
Skelly became interested in the operation of the bulldozer and shouted some advice to its driver. “Mere coincidence,” he said blandly, and she laughed again.
Now they became aware of heightened action in the colonia: kids running around, a man driving a small herd of pigs out of their pen, a pair of women carrying a large iron cauldron toward the big house.
Statch called out, “Yo, Ariel, what’s going on?”
The boy stopped in mid-run. “The patrón is having a fiesta. I’m the messenger. We’re going to kill pigs!” He ran off.
“Well, a fiesta,” said Skelly. “A good way to start a war. Your father is a classy guy, when he lets himself be.”
He walked over to the bulldozer and climbed up onto its seat.
“What are you doing now?” she asked.
“I’m going to go down to the causeway and push those wrecked cars off it.”
“I’ll come with you.” She was filthy and tired but she didn’t want this thing to end yet, this satisfying thing that she hadn’t realized she desired, so different from the satisfactions of MIT and her life in Cambridge.
“There’s only one seat,” he said.
“I’ll sit on your lap.”
He grinned at her and made a welcoming gesture.
When she settled down and he shoved the joystick forward, he said, “A patriotic wet dream this is, a vibrating Statue of Liberty on my groin.”
“Shut up, Skelly,” she said without heat, and studied his motions as he guided the machine through the colonia, across the broad graveled drive, and down the causeway.
“This is like when you taught me to drive a stick. What was I, eight?”
“Yeah, your mother threw a pot at my head when we got back.”
“Yes, and Peter was so jealous he didn’t talk to me for a week. But she really liked you. I mean my mom.”
“In a way,” he said after a considering pause. “She liked me the way you like the pet that someone you love brings into the marriage. Basically, they were kind of wrapped up in each other.”
“I guess,” Statch said, a little surprised that Skelly had picked this up. He came on like the essence of brute insensitivity, but he didn’t miss much. And what he’d said about her parents was a truth written into her life. They had been wrapped up in each other, and their children, although surrounded by love and every good thing, had understood from an early age that they were understudies in the Great Romance. Which was fine, really. They had developed early a kind of wild independence of spirit and had looked outside the family for the special flavors of love that their parents husbanded for each other: for example, the kind of gentle flirting that a father does with a daughter throughout girlhood so she knows she’s attractive, potent, desired; all the small comments, the fond looks that become the foundation of a woman’s deep confidence. Marder had tried, she understood that, but he didn’t have the energy: Chole was a full-time job for him. So Statch had got most of that over the years from the man she was sitting on right now.
“Hop off now, kid,” he said, bringing the Komatsu to a stop in front of the first of the wrecks. She did so and watched as he efficiently shoved the SUVs off the causeway and into the sea. It was no surprise that he could operate a bulldozer. Skelly could do a very large number of practical things, many of which (besides driving a stick shift) he had taught her over the years: how to be silent in the woods; how to hide; how to shoot, skin, and butcher a deer; how to clean a fish, a rabbit; how to ride a motorcycle; how to jump out of an airplane; and what guys, at least guys like him, looked for in a woman. It was probably no accident that the men she favored were more Skelly than Marder. Marder had taught her how to sail a small boat and how to shoot a pistol and about the uses of imagination. He was the one who told her stories. Skelly didn’t tell stories. She had asked, many times, but she still had not heard his version of what he and her father had experienced in Vietnam. After the cars were gone, she made him let her drive the bulldozer back up the hill.
* * *
Marder could only assume that his fiesta had proceeded accordingly to plan, for he remembered little of it, or about as much as he recalled of that firefight on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Small vignettes had been somehow recorded through the blear of alcohol.
Two men carrying a sheet of plywood upon which the meat of two dismembered piglets sat smoking; Skelly, stripped to the waist, feeding mesquite fires at the pits, grinning at him from a smoke-blackened face, like a devil; Amparo standing in the cool center of chaos, giving orders with magisterial calm, as if she was used to serving a hundred people at a moment’s notice; the music of the mariachi band, with the costumes and sombreros, guitars and trumpets, and dancing to its music
with his daughter, and with Pepa Espinoza, who noted that it was a cliché, who wanted to know what he thought he was doing, who disapproved of him, but who still danced with him, whirling in the colored lights; the colored lights shaped like little peppers—Amparo, again, had conjured them out of somewhere. Had he kissed Pepa Espinoza, or was that part of the dream?
He recalled giving a speech. Bartolomeo Ortiz, the blacksmith, a man he now understood was the mayor of the colonia, had called on the musicians to play a fanfare and in the ensuing silence had spoken simply and directly, thanking Señor Marder for this wonderful fiesta. Then Marder had to speak in response, and he had spoken, saying that he was gratified to have the privilege of hosting such wonderful people and that unless he was killed he would guarantee that the Colonia Feliz would exist and thrive forever. As he spoke, Marder sought out the faces of the three people he was most interested in. His daughter looked worried; Pepa Espinoza wore a sardonic grin, her head gently shaking in disbelief; Skelly had a grim and determined expression.
How it ended, or how he had returned to his bed, he did not know. Someone had undressed him to his shorts and covered him. In any case, there he now was, with sunlight slatting in through the closed shutters. He raised his head from the pillow, yelped, and dropped it down again. It was impossible to move with that head, yet he had to have water or die. And, indeed, some kind soul had left a bottle of water and a bottle of aspirin on the wicker table at his bedside. He washed down two aspirin and finished most of the liter.
He was engaged in the newly complex task of pulling on a pair of chinos when there came a light knock on the door.
“Yes?”
The door opened to reveal young Epifania in her blue school uniform. “Señor, my mother says to tell you there is coffee ready, if you care to come down, and she has made fresh bolillos. Also, Señor Skelly says to tell you that the army has arrived. And they have a tank.”
9
“That’s not actually a tank,” said Skelly. Marder, dressed and with a cup of Amparo’s excellent coffee in his hands, was standing with his friend on the roof terrace of his house, while Skelly studied the approaching column of vehicles through field glasses. “It’s a Panhard Lynx, a budget-friendly armored vehicle suitable for midsized armies whose major opponent is likely to be its own population.”
“It looks like a tank, though,” said Marder, “and that’s a pretty big gun.”
“Yes, it’s a ninety millimeter. I suggest we surrender.”
“I agree. Where are you off to?”
Skelly paused at the head of the stairs that led down into the house. “I think I’ll head down to the colonia and see about the septic field. I’m sure you can handle an armored assault all by yourself.”
There were four trucks and a Humvee following the Lynx like obedient ducklings. As Marder watched, they drove in through the open gate, parked on the gravel, and spewed soldiers in battle dress, armed with assault rifles, while the Panhard moved to one side, knocking over some planters, and sat there. Marder could hear the sound of its turret and elevator motors as the long tube of the gun swiveled around to point at the front door of the house.
He turned away and moved rapidly downstairs to the kitchen. Amparo was sitting there with her two children by her, on her face the familiar expression the war photographers love to catch.
“Amparo, take the children to your house and wait there. I will talk to these soldiers and then I’ll drive the children to school. Go now!”
Marder went to the front door and opened it, then went to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee.
The soldiers entered in combat formation, weapons high. They shouted at him to get down on the floor, which he did, and then they bound his hands with plastic flex. He waited for some time, smelling dust and floor wax, listening to the sound of soldiers rummaging ungently through his house.
Then two soldiers picked him up by the arms and took him into the dining room. They placed him in one of the chairs. There was a plate of bolillos on the table, still giving off their delightful odor.
An officer came in and took a seat across the table from Marder. He was wearing a camo uniform with the brass star of a major and the pale-gray band that indicated he was a member of military intelligence. He seemed young for a major, mid-thirties perhaps, and Marder was glad to see that the eyes set deeply into his thin, angular face had a bright and curious expression.
The two men stared at each other for a long minute. When the major spoke, his voice was low and cultivated. He said, “Señor Marder, I’ve looked into your background, and what I find there surprises me. I’m curious as to why someone like yourself should have come here to Playa Diamante and immediately become involved in the operations of not one but two dangerous narcotics-trafficking gangs. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”
“With pleasure, Major,” replied Marder. “I purchased this house and the surrounding land both as a retirement home and as an investment property. This is a common event in Mexico, I believe, and is not discouraged by your government. I had no sooner taken possession than some men arrived and ordered me to leave. They showed weapons. I was able, however, to disarm them and I sent them on their way. Later, I was in town, at the hotel, when I observed a kidnapping in progress. Happily, I was able to thwart it and escaped here with the victim. A little after that, three vehicles full of armed men arrived and fired automatic weapons at my house. Again, I was able to discourage them and they left.”
“I see,” said the major, with a smile of the type conferred on small children when they claim that their dollies come to life at night. “And how, exactly, did you accomplish this discouragement?”
“A colleague and I returned fire. It is the right of every citizen to defend his home, I believe.”
“Yes, it is. You know, I command a unit that is part of the effort of our president to eliminate the domination of drug gangs in this region of Mexico. In many parts of Michoacán, as you may be aware, civil government has entirely collapsed. The municipal authorities and the local police are either bribed or murdered, and the gangs rule. This cannot be allowed to happen, and so the army has been sent in to restore law and order. I have seen many odd things in my time here, but I was not prepared for the report that three vehicles belonging to La Familia had been destroyed by a cannon. This struck me as a dangerous escalation of violence, and so I decided to investigate. Have you any comment?”
“Yes. There was no cannon involved, only an exceptionally powerful rifle. I am what we in America call a ‘gun nut.’ I collect weapons of various calibers, which I daresay your men have already located, and one of these was involved in discouraging the invaders.”
The major opened his mouth to speak but was forestalled by a shriek from the upper parts of the house.
“Get your hands off me, you pigs! Bastards! Homosexuals!”
“My daughter,” said Marder. “I trust your men are not accustomed to abusing women, Major.”
The major stood, shouted an order to one of the soldiers—a sergeant—standing by. The man snapped a quick “Yes, Major, right away!” and ran out.
“Who else is in the house, Señor Marder?”
“My daughter, as I said, and my friend Patrick Skelly, and the victim of the attempted kidnap, Josefina Espinoza.”
The major’s thick eyebrows rose at the mention of this name. “Not the Pepa Espinoza, surely.”
“The very same. I believe La Familia objected to some of her coverage of their war. Major, my wrists are uncomfortable. Could you…?”
The major snapped his fingers and pointed, and a soldier came over with a knife and cut Marder free.
“Thank you, Major. I hope you’re now satisfied that—”
“What the hell’s going on, Dad?”
The two men turned and observed the entrance of Statch Marder, dressed in shorts, a stained T-shirt, and a bad attitude, accompanied by the sergeant and two embarrassed-looking young soldiers.
Marder rose and put an
arm around his daughter. “The major here was just trying to determine if this household was a danger to the peace and security in the state of Michoacán. I believe he’s almost ready to decide in the negative.”
The major looked back and forth between father and daughter, with somewhat more attention on the daughter, whose T-shirt was thin and revealing of what it covered and who was exhibiting an extraordinary length of leg below her very short shorts.
The major smiled. “There is the matter of the cannon.”
“The rifle, actually. Major, let us not fence. I understand your position. This land is mine. I intend to stay here. The gangs want me to leave. They want to build a casino resort on this island and dispossess me and the people who have come to live here. This I will not allow, and I have the means to resist them, I hope. I also hope that the army will see me as an ally and not as a menace.”
At this moment, Pepa Espinoza walked in. She was dressed in a terry-cloth robe that had obviously come with the house, her hair was wet, and her eyes were flashing mad.
“Well, Major Naca, we meet again,” she said to the officer, who stood and lost his smile on seeing her.
“Señora Espinoza. Always an enchantment.”
“Your men practically dragged me naked out of the shower.”
“I regret the inconvenience, of course.”
“Oh, please don’t! It will fill the second paragraph of my story. The headline will be—let me see—ARMY ABUSES DAUGHTER OF WEALTHY AMERICAN INVESTOR. The subhead—‘Beachside Residence in Playa Diamante Assaulted by Tank.’”
Major Naca’s face darkened. “There was no assault and no abuse, Señora. As you well know.”
Marder moved to stand between the reporter and the soldier. “That’s right. It was a simple mistake, of the type that often occurs when soldiers are charged with civil operations for which they are not trained or equipped. I was once part of such an operation some years ago, in Indochina, and so I can appreciate the major’s difficulties. Innocents are roughed up, property is damaged, and so on. But I believe there was not much harm done in this case, and I believe that the major is perfectly satisfied as to the nature of this household and will soon be on his way.”
The Return: A Novel Page 17