Marder raised his fist as he said this last, feeling like a fool and a fraud, but in fact the people cheered; they cheered, Viva Don Ricardo, Viva Don Eskelly, Viva la Colonia Feliz. Arriba los Felizistas! Marder caught Pepa Espinoza staring at him with a look he had not seen on her face before, a kind of stunned surprise.
The people started to leave for their posts and other duties. Marder took Skelly’s arm and suggested they take a walk. They went out through the front door, through the gardens of the house, and onto the road that led to the village. They passed the beer truck that Skelly had used to transport the weapons from Asia. Marder noticed that a crew of men was loading it with bags of fertilizer.
“I see you’re making good use of La Familia’s beer truck,” said Marder.
“Yeah, we have to spread the fertilizer around, up where they have crops started.”
“If they’re still planting stuff, I guess they think we can defend the island.”
“And you must think so too. That was quite a speech, boss, I got to say. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“But, seriously, what are our chances at this point?”
“Seriously? Like in any combat situation, it depends. I mean, it’s not suicide, or I wouldn’t be here. These boys aren’t real soldiers, but they’re fighting for their homes, and that counts, as we all learned in Vietnam. I can’t try anything fancy, and I’ll be satisfied if they just stay in their positions and fire their weapons in a disciplined fashion. On the plus side, we have better weapons, real military pieces, made by people who expected them to be used by peasants. They’re reasonably accurate and totally indestructible. The other guys have American fake ARs designed to feed the fantasies of right-wing assholes. If it comes to slaughter, that stuff won’t hold up. Also, our enemies aren’t soldiers either, and they’re fighting for an easy life where they get to push everyone around. Is that as important or as inspiring as fighting for hearth and home? Well, the Wehrmacht did pretty well for a while on that basis, but, again, los malosos are not the Wehrmacht. I don’t think they’ll advance against the kind of automatic fire we can bring on them for a while. ‘For a while’ is the key point there. We have no resupply, obviously, and not that much ammo, maybe three hundred rounds for each rifle and a couple of thousand for each machine gun. Twenty-six of our homemade claymores, five dozen or so homemade grenades. We were supposed to get RPGs, but they weren’t in the shipment. Baan said they’re coming on the—get this!—next shipment. Everyone’s all Amazon dot com nowadays. So, the bottom line is, I think we can hold out for a while, long enough for the story to get out and the army to move in. Absent that—well, we run out of ammo, we use sharp sticks and harsh words.”
“What makes you think the army will come?”
Both men turned, surprised, toward the source of this comment. Pepa was there with her Sony, having clearly followed them out and discreetly trailed them.
“Why wouldn’t they come?” asked Marder.
“First, because the action is up north, in the big cities, and down in Acapulco. There’s mass murder in Veracruz, Guadalajara, Monterrey, not to mention the killing zone along the border. And they’ve started up in the Defe itself and that’s intolerable; it’s an affront to national sovereignty. The point is, your small war may not be a priority for the army just now. Second, they might see it as a minor skirmish among gang factions. They didn’t hear your noble speech about defending hearth and home, besides which, peasants resisting with military arms is not something the rulers of Mexico ever want to encourage. All I’m saying is that if you’re counting on the military to bail you out, you may be disappointed.”
“I’m counting on you, though,” said Marder, “as much as on the soldiers.”
“On me.”
“Yes. On your talent and on the Internet. You’ll record what we’re doing and send it out: interviews, action, rockets’ red glare, bombs bursting in air, the dead and dying, the whole story of a popular resistance to the rule of the narcos. If you’re not killed, you’ll be famous.”
She looked stunned.
Skelly roared out a laugh. “That’s very sweet, Marder. Yet another invitation to join your death trip. Of course, it could be a problem getting the news out, because the first thing they’ll do is cut the Internet cable. The box is right there at the foot of the causeway.”
“It can go out through the cell tower,” said Marder.
“And that’s going to be their main target when they get here,” said Skelly. “Pepa might have to swim for it with a thumb drive in her mouth.”
“If I have to, I will,” said Pepa, surprising herself. It was not the sort of thing she usually said; it was like something in a bad film. That’s remarkable too, she thought; whenever we make a noble statement it sounds false in our ears. An interesting question, and she considered it for a few moments in silence.
Just then a group of children ran by, carrying ammunition boxes and containers holding food and water for the men on the lines. They were chattering and laughing and having a good time. One of them was the boy Ariel, who turned and waved gaily to Marder and shouted out something Marder didn’t quite catch.
“Did he say, ‘Victory or death’?”
“I believe he did,” said Pepa. “My God!”
Marder turned to Skelly and said, “Well, Patrick, once more we find ourselves in an enterprise likely to lead to the death of numerous children. I wonder why that is.”
“I guess we’re just lucky,” said Skelly, not smiling now. “By the way, do you know where Lourdes is? I haven’t seen her around since early this morning.”
“She should be in Mexico City,” said Marder. “Father Santana left for the airport with her and Statch early today.” Misleading, but not exactly lies.
Skelly gave Marder his shark look—something Marder hadn’t seen since Vietnam, and it took all his self-control not to quail before it.
“Oh? How did that get arranged?”
“She wanted to go. She’s not a prisoner. Didn’t she tell you she was going?”
“No. And neither did you. Or your girlfriend.” Skelly started to say something, then thought better of it and assumed a grin, although Marder could see by the way his nose pinched and went white around the nostrils that he was very angry.
“Okay, I’m a big boy. I get that she’s scared, she’s got some opportunities to pursue—I wish her the best. Maybe I’ll go up there and see her after this is over.” He clapped his hands, once. “Well, this has been pleasant, but right now I have to get to el golf and check out the troops.”
Skelly started to leave, but Marder touched him on the shoulder. “Wait—when the thing goes down, where do you want me?”
A more genuine smile returned. “Well, not in the command center anyway. Every time I gave an order they’d be looking at the patrón. How about up on the roof with the big rifle and your Steyr? You can snipe. I know you enjoy sniping.”
They watched him walk away.
“He’s as bad as they are,” said Pepa.
“Perhaps not quite as bad,” replied Marder. “And he’s on our side.”
“Is he? You’re very trusting where he’s concerned, Marder, and I have to say it’s unusual for such a devious person as yourself to be trusting that way, especially with respect to a chingaquedito like him.”
“Well, we go back a long way. Can you handle a kayak?”
She giggled, an unusual sound, and gave him a grin that dropped ten years from her face. “Well, change the subject! Can I handle a kayak? I spent three summers on the Sea of Cortez attending a very exclusive camp for rich young ladies, so, yes, I can handle a kayak, although it’s been … I’m embarrassed to say how many years. Why do you ask?”
“Because, if worse comes to worst and you have to get out of here with, as Skelly said, a thumb drive in your mouth, there’s a plastic kayak in an azalea thicket just to the west of the boathouse down by the marina. You’d want to wait for dark.”
“You cooked up an e
scape route for your daughter?”
“For you, actually. Carmel could swim off this island about as fast as you could paddle. And the kayak was here already. From the fun-loving Guzmán. I just stashed it there when they turned the boathouse into a strong point. Of course, there’s Skelly’s cabin cruiser, but he’s got the key to it, and also it’s kind of a big target. You’d do better with the kayak.”
A peculiar expression appeared on her face. Marder thought it was embarrassment. She looked down and her mouth twisted. Then a nervous laugh. “You’re always saving my life, Marder. I’m wondering if this is a good basis for a relationship.”
“We’ll have to see how that works with our extreme sexual attraction,” said Marder lightly, but the remark seemed not to please her.
“Yes, we will, although I hope you’re not turning all Mexican on me. First come little flirty comments like that one, and next you’re squeezing my ass in public and telling all your boyfriends about what I’m like in bed. I’m nobody’s chingada, Don Ricardo.”
“Point taken. Although the terror I feel when I think about you would militate against your presumptive chingadismo. I’m sure you feel the same.”
“What, you think I’m afraid of you?”
“Yes. A certain underlying fear of the beloved is part of every real romance. Terrible as an army with banners, as the Bible has it. Obviously, women have every right to be frightened of men, but that’s not what I mean. I mean we allow the other to get inside the shell, inside the armor, the—what’s another word?”
“The penetralia.”
“Yes, and a word we don’t hear enough at present. We’re not flirting now, Espinoza, we’re sharing hearts.”
“Yes, and I think you should slow down. I don’t know how much this has to do with the situation; the presence of death makes people do crazy things, and … quite apart from last night, my penetralia are somewhat occluded at present.”
“And tonight? May I expect a visit?”
“Let’s leave that open, shall we? If I’m to do a shake-and-bake documentary of this locura you’ve arranged, I have a lot of work to do. But perhaps I will surprise you. Hasta luego, Marder.”
She turned and took three steps in the direction of the colonia, spun on her heel, walked back, kissed him soundly, and, without another word, went on her way.
Speaking of insanity, thought Marder as he watched her walk away.
* * *
It was not all that much of a surprise. It was late, just after two; he’d had to accomplish a thousand small tasks that apparently only el patrón could do, settling arguments, allotting resources, chiding, calming, pumping up flagging spirits. He was just letting the sound of the surf lull him to sleep when the door opened without a knock and she came in, wearing only a light silk robe and carrying a laptop case, both of which she dropped at the side of the bed. Without a word, she slipped in beside him and gave him the indescribable, familiar, but evergreen shock of a naked body against his own.
She wanted to be on top, to be in control, and he thought that was fine. She was ungentle, nearly violent, as she ground down and pounded against him, making the bed rattle, and there was a good deal of biting and scratching and bad language.
“Yes, I’m your chingada,” he said after.
“Good. See that you don’t forget it.”
He laughed, and she did too and punched him in the ribs as she rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. When she came back, she opened the laptop case, slipped on a pair of reading glasses, and worked on the video she’d shot that day.
He watched her as she worked. He recalled sneaking looks at Chole as she worked in the big studio they’d shared in their loft and he felt the same curious semi-erotic thrill, a voyeurism of the spirit.
She felt his eyes on her and said, “Don’t peek. I can’t stand it when people watch me edit.”
“I was actually enjoying the sight of your nipples jiggling as you pounded the keys. You talk to yourself too, little imprecations and queries. Charming. How is it going?”
“Good. Some nice interviews and a lot of background stuff. Of course, the killer part, so to speak, will be the actual fighting.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing. Not that I looked.”
“Yes, I had to learn video editing on my own. When I bailed out of telenovelas, they made me start as the weather girl in Veracruz. I often wore a bikini, if you can believe it, and for a couple of years I shot stories with friends as crew and sent the videos in to my management and got totally ignored, until I did a political exposé of one of the enemies of the guy who owned the station. That got me the reporter’s job, and then Televisa picked me up for a magazine show out of Defe. And here I am.”
She punched keys for a while, then slammed her finger down on the save button and copied to a thumb drive.
Holding the tiny thing up, she said, “I suppose this will be gripped in my teeth as I paddle away. Or in a more intimate cavity.” She snapped the laptop shut and slid it to the floor.
“Speaking of intimate cavities.” She rolled on top of him.
“Eek. Not again.”
“No. I have to get some sleep, and so do you, my Zapata. I just like to lie on top of you. I like a big guy for that purpose.”
In a while they took a break from nuzzling and she said, “You poor doomed man.”
“Perhaps not. Change is always possible.”
“Yes, this is why you’ll never understand Mexico. In my country, politics is tragic, and all our great politicians have been tragic figures, either saints or demons. You, clearly, are one of the saints. But no one expects real change, because the nation reflects the human condition, original sin, call it what you like. There will always be a chingón and a chingada, and the only question is which men fall into which group. In your country, on the other hand, you believe that change is possible, and so your politics is comic. All your politicians are therefore clowns.”
“It’s a point of view,” said Marder, “although I believe I’m enough of a Mexican to have a tragic sense of life. I fell into this situation, you know; I didn’t write a manifesto and come down here to carry it out. I’m obliged to hope for the best, but I’m not a fool. I think death will find me very soon, and, querida, my dear heart, I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather spend my last few hours with.”
“You know, you’re always saying things like that. I was struck by it earlier when that kid yelled ‘victory or death,’ and then that crack about swimming off the island, and I said, ‘If I have to, I will.’ Somehow the irony has left the building. I’ve been wondering why.”
Marder’s cell phone rang, the stupid default tone sounding particularly stupid in the circumstances. He left the bed and picked it up, observing that it was just past three a.m.
The caller was El Gordo.
“Well, Don Ricardo, here is your last chance to give me my property back.”
“I’m devastated to have to tell you that my colleague and I have decided that it’s not presently in our interest to do so. My colleague used an American expression: If you want my gun, you’ll have to pry it out of my cold dead hands. How about half a million instead? Dollars.”
“I’m happy to hear that you dispose of such resources. When I have you, and your house, and my property, such knowledge will ease negotiations for your personal release. I earnestly hope that I don’t have to pry anything out of your cold dead hands, although that’s really up to you. Hasta la vista, Don Ricardo.”
“That was the Templos, no?”
Marder slipped back into bed. “That was Don Servando himself. He as much as told me he’s coming to get what he thinks we owe him. I don’t see why he shouldn’t attack us tomorrow. I expect he’s been preparing it for a while.”
“I’m trying to think up a witty and insouciant rejoinder, but I’m drawing a blank. We seem to be in an irony-free zone now.”
He wrapped his arms around her smooth, warm back. “Yes, well, irony is no protection when you ca
n feel the breeze from his scythe on your skin and hear the rustle of his wings.”
She turned in his arms so that she was staring into his face, her eyes wide, the pupils black and huge in the dim light. “Holy Mother! My God, you know you’re right too about what you said out on the road before.” She was speaking softly, trying not to let her voice break. “You really do frighten me. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m voluntarily in the path of an entire cartel. Puerco Dios, Marder! It’s just now hitting me: we are all going to die, aren’t we?”
“But not you,” he said.
20
“Are you still sleeping?”
There was enough light coming through the windows now to show him her face. He touched her cheek. “Not really. In and out, with unpleasant dreams.”
“Me too. Are you worrying about your daughter?”
“Every second it takes all I have not to jump up and start running around in circles, screaming. But the truth is, I’m actually helpless. Either she’ll be fine or the opposite, and I resign the outcome to God’s hands. It’s one of the advantages of the religious imagination, without which ninety percent of the population of this country would have curled up and died a long time ago.”
The Return: A Novel Page 38