When I finally reached bottom, she said, “They think I’m stupid, I say something got you scared. Not today, they know you not there today, ‘cause Carlos say that to Luis with the bad arm and poco Pedro when they talk to him to make sure he’s at his shop, you know. What they figure, these guys, I’m the one, I’m the stupid, I said something before that got you scared. So now they gonna cut me and all this shit.”
“They’re gonna cut you?” This was terrible.
But she dismissed it with an angry wave of the hand. “No, they just talkin’, ‘cause they mad, ‘cause you got away, now they gotta look for you.”
“Where?”
“They gonna go talk to Artie.” She gave me an angry smile. “Maybe he’s gonna punch their heads in, whaddaya think?”
“I’d like that,” I said.
“So would I,” she said, and bounced all her parts around on the sofa, and said, “You hungry? You wanna go eat?”
“Luz, you know,” I said, “I got almost no money. I’ve been living on Carlos.”
“So now you’re living on me,” she said, and whomped herself on the chest. Her grin was now less angry, looser, more Luz. And rum. “You’ll pay me back some other time,” she said. “I got a good job.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I will pay you back.”
“I know,” she said. She finished her rum, put the glass on the floor, and said, “So now we go eat, then we go dancin’, and…” She leaned forward, looking around at the floor, then over at me. “Help me outa this, Felicio,” she said. Meaning the sofa.
That was the trickiest moment so far.
24
Dancing was never going to be a sensible idea, what with me having to hide out and Luz being Luz, but I’d agreed to it last night, full of tension and rum, so here we were.
The Napalma equivalent of Club Rick, at least on a Thursday night, was a mostly open-air bar along the river between Luz’s house and the factory, whose name I never did find out. It was less than a ten-minute walk from the house. There was a thatch-roofed open-sided part, with the bar and a small dance floor and some tables, and a much larger open part, with Japanese lanterns strung on poles and trees, all these soft colors of light against the surrounding darkness, like a kind of pastel chiaroscuro. There were long plastic picnic tables out there near the riverbank, and a pounded-earth dance floor between the tables and the bar. The music was a live band full of guitars and trumpets and amplifiers, all wailing away.
We ate our dinner — chicken and rice and plantains and fried tomatoes and plenty of grease and several beers — at one of those plastic picnic tables, sharing the table with a shifting population of other diners. Luz knew almost everybody, of course, but the noise level, between the blaring band and the shouting customers, was so high she couldn’t even pretend to introduce me.
After dinner, we danced, along with the rest of the happy, heaving, sweaty crowd, all moving together but not together under the pink and canary and aqua and jade lights, shifting, dipping, shoulders up with pride, mostly bare feet pounding the dirt. Luz made love to the world, to the music, to the night, to the air, to me, to everybody, and laughed through it like another trumpet.
At times we’d pause for a beer, sitting sprawled on the bench of one of the picnic tables, watching the other dancers and breathing like sled dogs, letting the air dry the sweat on our faces. But one of those times, when we reeled off the floor, she pulled at my arm until my ear was close enough, and said, “Felicio, I gotta go home.”
That’s right. She got up very early this morning, and by now it must be very late. (My Rolex was back at her house, in the fruit box next to the futon. It hadn’t seemed to go with my Felicio costume.) So I nodded, too winded to answer, and she took my hand, and we staggered on out of there.
The night was just cool enough and dry enough to restore us some when we left that place and walked toward home. Luz had kept hold of my hand, and that was okay with me. We were pals now.
We walked in silence for the first few minutes, and then she said, “You’re okay, Felicio. I like you.”
“Well, thanks, Luz,” I said. “I like you too. And I’m very grateful to you.”
“And Lola’s great,” she said.
That surprised me, but I had to agree. “Yes, she is.”
“Before she met up with you, you know,” she said, “she was stuck-up. I was jus’ a little kid, but I remember. Everybody said she was too big in the head. How do you say that?”
“Like that, pretty much,” I said. “I don’t see her that way, though.”
“Now I know,” she told me. “Now I know, back then, she jus’ lonely. She knows she’s smart and she knows she’s good and she knows something good is suppose to happen, but she don’ see it coming. Not till she gets away from here. Not till she meets up with you. She don’ belong here, she belongs in the north.”
I said, “Lola and me, we were both one leg of the same pants. We weren’t any good to anybody until we got together.”
She laughed. “That’s a funny way to talk about pants,” she said.
When we got to her place, she walked through the dark living room and switched on the light in the bedroom, and then I could follow.
Ignoring me, she was already pulling that orange blouse off over her head. I kept eyes front and beelined through my own curtained doorway.
“Buenas noches,” she called through the curtain, and yawned in the middle of it.
“Good night, Luz,” I said. I touched my warm forehead to the cool curtain. “It was a terrific night. Thank you.”
No answer. I think she was already asleep.
25
So once again, in the semicool of the evening, I stretched out naked on my futon. I’m too tired to sleep, I thought, especially after doing nothing all day. So I’ll just lie here and…
“Get out! Get out!”
It was a shrill whisper, full of panic and urgency. I sat up, completely bewildered. No idea where I was, what was going on. Stupidly, I said, “What?”
“Get out get out get out!”
Voices, male voices, nearby. The futon, the glassless window, the darkness, Luz’s panic-stricken voice, thumps of boots on the front room floor.
The cousins! I was naked, in the dark, I couldn’t remember what I’d done with my pants, where’s anything, what can I do?
Still seated on the futon, I grabbed the windowsill, pulled myself up, put a leg over the sill, and my terrified toes found a tiny ridge along the outside, the same height as the floor within. The floor was the platform the house was built on, and the platform extended less than an inch beyond the rear wall.
My toes clung to that slender line, as I turned my back to the window and put the other leg over. Now I had about six toes on the narrow band of wood, and one arm around the window frame, pressed to the wall.
Light came from the other side of the doorway, turning the scarlet curtain into dark blood, a scab, a wound. The cousins were in there, in the bedroom. If they opened that curtain—
The window was very near the corner of the house. Even if I could move sideways, there wasn’t room enough to hide between the window and the end of the wall. And in the other direction, toward the lavatorio, there was nothing to hold on to at all.
I hated this, but what could I do? I grabbed the windowsill with both hands and lowered myself. One foot reached down and down, the toes of the other turned prehensile against that sliver of platform.
It was no good. Nothing but air, nothing to hold onto. I had to let the other foot slide down off that ridge while I gripped the windowsill, so I hung there with my feet straight down. Water tugged at my ankles, warmish water, from right to left.
Above me, light increased; the curtain was open. I let go of the windowsill.
Chest-deep water, tugging at me, wanting me to go leftward with it, wanting to take me along for a ride, past the fertilizer factory, past San Cristobal, on past Rancio into Venezuela, on to introduce me to its big brother the Orinoc
o, who would coast me on his broad shoulders all the way to the delta and out to the North Atlantic Ocean, the Gulf of Paria, and the narrow passage by Trinidad called the Serpent’s Mouth.
No, thank you, I’m already in the serpent’s mouth.
I reached in front of me and touched the slimy post holding up the house. It was an unshaped log, with the bark gone, and it was as slippery as a fish. Still, I rested my palm against it, tried not to think about the soft squishiness around my toes, the mud or worse on which I stood, in which I stood, and tried instead to concentrate on what was happening above my head.
Dim light was at the window up there, which meant the curtain was still drawn back and I was seeing illumination from the bedroom. Somebody was looking into the back room and not seeing anybody.
What now? Would he come in the rest of the way, light the kerosene lantern, look around, find my Rolex? Find my passport, my driver’s license, my clothing, my suitcase?
No. The light dimmed. It was a person he was looking for, not a Rolex. In what dim light he had to work with, he’d seen there was no person in that room, and that’s all he wanted to know.
Plainly I could hear their boots, above me, scuffing around in the bedroom. Indistinctly I could hear the voices, Luz trying to be outraged but merely being scared, the male voices gruff and discontented.
Splash-sssssshhhhhhhhhh… Oh, for God’s sake, one of them’s using the lavatorio!
I couldn’t stand being here, in this piss-warm water, while piss splashed down twelve feet away: downstream, thank God, but still. What if somebody in the house just over here to my right decided to get rid of tonight’s beer? Or tacos?
Where I stood was not completely inky black. There was starlight, and it reflected off the water, and I could make out the post in front of me and the building above me and the other houses up and down the row. And I could see a support board attached to the post in front of me at an angle just above the water-line, then up at a diagonal to the end of a floor beam halfway between here and the bank. Moving my feet with great reluctance, I got around to that support board and used it to pull myself along the side of the house.
The water got quickly shallower, so that it was only to the top of my thighs when I reached the other end of the board, and I was pressing my hand to the rough plank siding of the house instead. Ahead of me was land, and up beyond that point was the side window to the front room. Light gleamed from there, a searchlight band of it that I didn’t dare walk through. Of course, it wasn’t as bright as a searchlight, it was merely the rosy glow from Luz’s pink-shaded living room lamp, but it would show movement.
Where were they? The sounds of voices, it seemed to me, still came from the bedroom. They weren’t going to have sex with her, were they? They were all cousins. On the other hand, these guys struck me as the kind who’d go to family reunions to pick up girls.
I couldn’t go past the window, but maybe I could get close enough to peek inside, if I stayed out of the band of light. I moved forward, the water now to my ankles, the mud under my feet firmer, the slope steeper. I came up to land, very steep and stony, pulled myself along the side of the house, and here was the window. I chanced a peek inside, and the room was empty.
The voices seemed different now, Luz less scared, the males less belligerent. Everybody was still talking, but it seemed to be merely a general discussion at this point, without suspicion in it. Talking about me? Where I might be, probably.
Out here, wet and naked.
The quality of the light changed in there, and I had just realized that must mean the bedroom doorway curtain had been pulled back when into my line of vision stepped a Mexican bandit. It’s true he didn’t wear a sombrero or a bandoleer, but he did have the slouching walk and the walrus mustache and he did carry — oh, Lord! — a machete.
I pressed myself against the wall of the house. He turned, almost facing me, and spoke, and two more of them entered the picture. So that was Luis with the bad arm: ugly son of a bitch.
Next Luz came into view, smiling nervously, wearing a great white cotton sack of a nightgown she must own for hospital stays and visits to grandma’s house; I couldn’t believe that was how she normally spent her nights.
Did I hear her use the word cerveza? If she was being a hostess now, asking them to stay, it was a perfect way to remind them they had to go; they had miles to travel, podner, and an ornery in-law to kill.
Yes. That was the way it was working; they were all trending toward the door. Six of them in all, and there’s poco Pedro; I could probably take him if he weren’t carrying that machete. Three of them held machetes; the other three apparently would prefer to rip me apart with their bare hands.
Out the door they went, still taking their time, Luz wishing them luck in their quest, assuring them there was no problem in their having showed up so unexpectedly, drop in any time, bring your machetes, come by when you can stay longer, give my love to the dogs and the chickens back at the hacienda…. Would they never leave?
Yes. There they go, poco Pedro last. Luz stood in the doorway for more farewells, these hushed for the sake of the neighbors. I crept forward, trying to duck under the light from the window, and saw their pickup truck, big and dirty and saggy. They came into sight one at a time, moseying toward their truck just as though it actually was a passel of ponies. They climbed aboard, three inside the cab and three in the open back. It wasn’t as dramatic as a posse on a passel of ponies, but it would do.
I was so absorbed in watching them, I almost forgot to duck out of sight of the headlights. The truck faced the house, which meant it faced me. But then the starter ground and ground, and I suddenly realized what was going to happen next, and I moved back and downslope along the side of the house as far as the window. I looked in there, and Luz still stood in the open doorway, smiling, waving bye-bye, until she was suddenly flooded with glary light. Then she slammed the door and turned, and her expression had switched to great worry.
I wanted to speak, but the truck was slowly backing off, headlight beams spraying everywhere, and I didn’t dare move. Luz hurried away, toward the rear of the house, no doubt looking for me, and the truck at last completed its turning retreat. It stopped, then moved forward, engine rasping, and limped away toward San Cristobal.
Now I hurried around to the front and in. I shut the door behind me just at the instant Luz came rushing back through the doorway from the bedroom, still looking deeply worried until she saw me, then becoming joyously relieved. “Felicio! You’re okay!”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been in the river. I’ve probably got most of the world’s tropical diseases by now.”
“Oh, we gotta get you washed,” she said. “C’mere.”
I followed her to the sink, where she pulled out a gleaming metal contraption and attached it to the faucet, saying, “Here. This’s how you get clean.”
Ah. It was a telephone shower, a shower head attached to a flexible metal hose. I took it, and she said, “There’s the soap. Get the water hot like you want it. I’ll do your back.”
I said, “Luz, I’ll get the whole house wet.”
She pointed down and said, “You stand there.”
I looked and there was a metal grid, about two feet by three, in the floor in front of the sink. “That’s terrific,” I said. “What’ll they think of next?”
I ran warm water over my chest and arms. Some splashed on the floor, but most of it ran down me and through the grid.
Luz said, “I’ll do your back.”
“Okay.” I gave her the shower head and started to soap my front. She ran water over my back, and all at once I saw the situation I was in: wet and naked, being washed by Luz Garrigues. Then, to make matters worse, I immediately produced physical evidence of my awareness.
“Okay, here’s the water,” she said, coming around front. “Gimme the soap, I’ll do your back.” Then she did her loose smile and said, “Well. You are glad to see me.”
“Warm water,” I sa
id. “It’s a well-known turn-on.”
“Uh-huh.” She took the soap, went around behind me, and soaped me very well indeed, while I tried to think about other things. Any other things.
Even those guys. I said, “Why did they come here, anyway? Did they think I was here?”
“They don’t know what they think, those bums,” she said in disgust. “A couple of them — I think Manfredo, maybe not — they said I give you a warning so you could run away. They argue, did I do it, did I not do it. Then I was dancin’ with somebody tonight nobody knows. Somebody got on the phone, called Manfredo or somebody, ask about this guy. So they come down, look around, just in case you’re here.”
“Somebody called your cousins about me?”
“They wanna know who you are. Nosy people. So they call a cousin of mine: Who’s this guy stayin’ with Luz? So that’s why they come down. I say you ain’t stayin’ with me, you’re a truck driver work for the factory, you off on your run.”
“Jesus, that was close.”
“I pray to Jesus, too, lemme tell you,” she said. “Those guys can get mean. Especially that poco Pedro, he’s a mean guy even when he ain’t drunk.”
“Luz, tomorrow, from the factory, could you call Arturo? Tell him to come down here. Don’t say why, just tell him come down, it’s important.”
“Sure, in the morning. Okay, you’re done. Here’s the water.”
I kept my back to her. “Thanks, Luz, I’ll just rinse the rest, you know, myself.”
“I seen those before,” she told me. “I’m goin’ to bed, I’m tired.”
“Thanks,” I said. “For — you know, for everything.”
“Sure. Goo’night.”
What with one thing and another, it took me a long while to get back to sleep.
26
Friday. Another slow day, alone in Luz’s house. I was running out of photo novels, and the river was running out of different kinds of boats to show me. The Rolex said it was only eleven-thirty, too early for lunch, but I decided to eat anyway, just for something to do. I got up from the saggy living room sofa, meaning to go to the refrigerator and spend a long time choosing my menu, when a car stopped out front.
The Scared Stiff Page 11