‘You’ve been there?’ Carmen asked, surprised.
‘Aye. I spent about six weeks there twenty years ago. Did a lot of hiking in the mountains. It’s a beautiful place.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any contacts in the area?’ Shepreth asked hopefully.
Docherty shrugged. ‘It was twenty years ago,’ he said again, ‘but who knows? Most of the time I was there I stayed with one Indian family, and I don’t suppose they’ve moved very far. It’s an enclosed world.’
‘Not any longer,’ Shepreth said drily. ‘The drug people have moved into the area in a big way over the last five years. And not just to establish secluded stopovers for stuff heading north – they’ve got the Tarahumara into the poppy-growing business.’
‘There’s hardly any decent soil in those mountains,’ Docherty said. ‘They probably need the money to feed their children.’
‘A few of them may be making money,’ Shepreth said, ‘but some are getting killed, and a lot more are getting beaten up. According to Vaughan it’s like the Wild West revisited.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Docherty said.
Shepreth was examining the map again. ‘Where exactly did you stay?’ he asked.
‘I was based in a village near Batopilas,’ Docherty said, pointing it out. ‘That’s where the family lived.’
‘It’s almost next door,’ Shepreth said.
‘It’s about seventy-five miles away by dirt track,’ Docherty corrected him. ‘Or a two-day hike across the mountains.’ The Tarahumara were famous for their walking, he remembered. Some of their young men could give the SAS a run for their money across the Brecon Beacons.
‘Why would this drug lord want to live somewhere like this?’ Carmen wanted to know.
‘He’s also got a big villa in Ciudad Juárez,’ Shepreth told her. ‘We don’t know how much of the year he spends in the monastery.’
‘He probably likes hunting,’ Docherty murmured, and looked up from the map. ‘It’s not a small area, but the Tarahumara are – or were – a tight-knit community, and someone in Batopilas will know what’s happening in Norogachic. I’ll get up there and nose around – with any luck the Torreses will still be there.’ Paco, the teenage son with whom he had spent a week hiking in the wilderness, would be over forty by now. ‘I think you two should head for Divisadero,’ he went on, pointing it out on the map. ‘It’s on the Copper Canyon Railway, just above the Copper Canyon itself. They were building a couple of swanky hotels when I was there, and you can enjoy the view for a couple of days while I do all the work. I’ll get in touch when I have something.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ Shepreth said, his dislike of the enforced inaction more than offset by the thought of the company he would be keeping.
‘OK then,’ Docherty said, ‘seconds out, round two. And I expect I’ll be needing a handgun,’ he added as an afterthought.
14
As the small plane touched down on the runway at Hidalgo del Parral the mountains to the west were silhouetted against the deep-red sky. Docherty descended the rickety steps and headed across the tarmac towards the taxi rank, where several welcoming smiles were competing for the right to fleece the gringo. The lucky winner drove him straight to the town’s best hotel, sorely disappointed by the Scot’s ability to remark in fluent Spanish that he’d noticed the faulty meter.
After eating an excellent comida corrida at a nearby restaurant Docherty took a stroll round the town centre. Hidalgo del Parral was famous for being the site of Pancho Villa’s assassination, and the habit of violence seemed to have lived on in the groups of surly-looking youths who watched him walk by, pursuing him with menacing murmurs of ‘Gringo!’ But then he didn’t suppose there was much else in the way of entertainment on offer.
Soon after dawn next morning he walked down to the bus station, where a red-eyed driver pointed him in the direction of the pick-up point for those heading west into the Sierra Tarahumara. Half an hour later he was sharing a wooden bench in the back of a four-wheel-drive Dodge pick-up with a mixed bag of Mexican farmers and forestry workers. They took on more passengers in the old mining town of San Francisco del Oro, and then, on a rapidly deteriorating road, began slowly climbing into the mountains. About eight dusty, bone-rattling hours later, Docherty stepped gingerly down on to the square at Batopilas, a small town surrounded by soaring canyon walls. His body might be aching, but he felt that familiar intoxication of the spirit which only the world’s high places seemed to conjure up.
He bought and consumed a couple of empanadas on a bench in front of the old adobe church, then went in search of transport for the last few kilometres to Uruáchic. A forestry official answered his thumb, and an hour later he was being dropped off in another smaller square in another smaller canyon. The village had changed little in twenty years, though there were more shiny pick-ups in evidence, not to mention electricity pylons. Docherty walked down to the store which the Torres family had run, and ducked in through the low doorway. It took a few seconds for his eyes to get used to the dark, but there it all was – the worn leather saddles hanging from the wooden beams, the ubiquitous crates of Coca-Cola, the hessian sacks full of maize and beans.
He realized the man behind the counter was staring at him. A second later, they recognized each other.
‘Jaime!’
‘Paco!’
The two men hugged, and stared at each other some more. The lithe teenager with whom Docherty had gone hiking in the mountains had not put on much weight, but his face was gaunter, and his dark eyes seemed more hooded than before. ‘Come,’ Paco said in Spanish, ‘we’ll go to my house. It is time to close anyway.’
He insisted on carrying Docherty’s bag as they walked the couple of hundred metres to the farmhouse on the outskirts of the village. Paco’s mother, Juanita, was a Tarahumara, but his father, Fidel, was half-Mexican, and they had inherited the house from the Mexican side of his family. The outbuilding where Docherty had slept for several weeks was still standing, dwarfed by the canyon wall behind it.
Juanita and Fidel were sitting out on the porch, enjoying the last hour of sunshine before shadows filled the canyon. They looked old now, though they were probably only in their early sixties, and it took both of them a while to recognize Docherty. When they did, huge smiles creased their leathery faces.
Another woman was standing in the doorway. ‘This is my wife Siniya,’ Paco said, and the woman shook his hand, curiosity in her large, dark eyes. ‘You will eat with us?’ she said in halting Spanish, reminding Docherty that a lot of the Tarahumara spoke only their own language.
‘I’d be honoured,’ he said.
‘And then the two of us will go walking in the mountains,’ Paco insisted, before he saw the reproachful look in his wife’s eyes. ‘Or perhaps not,’ he added, and everyone laughed.
Three children joined them at the huge table inside. His two eldest sons, Paco explained, were both married and living in Batopilas. He asked Docherty whether he was married, and was clearly pleased with the answer. No doubt he remembered that the Scot had been lugging around a broken heart the last time they met.
Between mouthfuls of bean stew and the local maize beer the adults swapped stories of the past twenty years, while the younger children stared at Docherty through saucer-like eyes. It was not until afterwards, when Paco and Docherty were alone on the porch with second bottles of Tesquina, that the question came up of what had brought Docherty back to Uruáchic. ‘It is wonderful to see you again,’ Paco said, ‘but there is a seriousness in your eyes, my friend. I do not think you have come to the Sierra for a holiday.’
Docherty grunted. ‘I wish I had,’ he said. ‘But first, tell me what is happening to the Tarahumara. I have a friend who tells me that there has been trouble here in the last few years.’
Paco shook his head, but not in denial. ‘Much trouble,’ he agreed. ‘It is the drugs, of course, or the people who deal in them, and it has been going on for a long time now. The men first cam
e with the packets of seeds, and they promised ten times more for a single crop than anyone could earn from corn or beans.’ He shrugged. ‘Some people planted the seeds,’ he said, ‘and at first they made a lot of money. Each year that the rains failed a few more would decide to grow the marijuana or the poppies, because otherwise they were afraid their families would starve. But they did not get rich – the buyers offered less and less for each crop, and if anyone refused then men with guns would visit them. They have frightened teachers away from several schools and they stopped the building of a clinic.’ He stood up. ‘Come, I want to show you something.’
They walked down the empty street towards the dimly lit centre of the village. Paco opened the wooden door of the small adobe church and went in, lighting a candle from the supply inside the door. He walked to one side and held it up to the wall, which Docherty could see was pock-marked by bullet holes, and then held it above the deeply stained wooden floorboards in the aisle. ‘There was a meeting here six months ago, a meeting of farmers to discuss how they could fight back against the drug people. And in the middle of it three men walked in with guns and opened fire. Four of the farmers were killed, and many more injured.’
‘What did the police do?’ Docherty asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘And the state government, the Federales?’
Paco shook his head. ‘They make noise about stopping the drugs, but that is mostly for the Nortamericanos.’ He smiled. ‘They spray the crops, pretending they are killing them, but they are spraying water.’
‘The drug people – do they have one leader?’
‘In this area it is a man named Ignacio Payán. He has a fortress in the mountains near Norogachic.’
Docherty felt both satisfaction and a twinge of guilt. ‘I have business with this man,’ he began, and Paco’s face dropped. ‘He has kidnapped a woman, the sister of my friend. And he is protecting a man named Angel Bazua, who killed many of my wife’s friends.’
Paco was smiling again. ‘You are still a warrior, yes?’ he said.
‘Old habits die hard,’ Docherty admitted. ‘I need to get into this fortress and get the woman back. I will also kill Bazua and Payán if I can.’
‘All by yourself?’
‘Another man is waiting with my friend in Creel, but that is all.’
‘These are vicious men,’ Paco said, looking down at the bloodstained floor. ‘I have a cousin in Norogachi,’ he said. ‘He has been trying to organize people against Payán for several years, and though they have run his truck off the road and given him several beatings he refuses to accept defeat.’
‘I’d like to meet him,’ Docherty said.
On the same day that the Scot had taken his flight to Hidalgo del Parral, Carmen and Shepreth had flown further north, to the larger city of Chihuahua, and early next morning they boarded the Vista Tren for their five-hour journey to Creel on the famous Copper Canyon Railway. The train was predictably full of tourists, most of whom were travelling all the way to Los Mochis on the Pacific coast, but the two of them made no attempt to socialize. Carmen just stared out of the window at the green ranching country and distant mountains, while Shepreth read a novel he had found in his hotel room the previous night.
At first sight Creel looked like a set for a Hollywood Western – streets of log cabins complete with ranchers and Indians, a trading store and a Jesuit mission. The bank, post office and hotels looked a little more modern, and the forest managers in their gleaming new pick-ups looked as if they’d strayed into the picture by accident. The Nuevo looked like the best hotel on offer, and after taking two rooms they wandered round the town, ate dinner and went to bed.
There was still no word from Docherty the following morning, and Shepreth managed to persuade Carmen that going on one of the organized minibus trips to an impressive waterfall would be better than sitting around waiting. Through the first hour of the four-hour journey she felt as listless as the day before, but gradually the brightness of the colours and the clarity of the mountain air revived her spirits, awakening a feeling in her chest and stomach which she eventually recognized as simple happiness. This realization brought guilt in its wake – how could she feel happy when she knew what Marysa was going through? – but deep down in her soul Carmen knew that at that moment there was nothing more she could be doing.
The Basaseachic Falls, which their guide proudly announced were the highest in North America, were certainly beautiful, but as Carmen stared at the tumbling shroud of water she felt something more than mere wonder. The Falls were like a reaffirmation. The water fell and fell, and life went on.
That same morning Paco took Docherty into Batopilas and found him a lift to Norogachi. The road up the canyon was in no better state than it had been the day before, and the bottoms of the passengers in the back of the pick-up rarely spent more than a few consecutive seconds on the wooden benches. Docherty found such physical preoccupations almost a relief – he had woken that morning with thoughts of an old Western on his mind and had instantly realized why. In the film, which he remembered from his schooldays, John Wayne had spent years looking for a niece who had been captured by Indians. And when he had finally found the grown-up girl his first inclination had been to kill her, because her years as an Apache squaw had turned her into one of them.
What had happened to Carmen’s sister? Docherty wondered. Could anyone come all the way back from where she had been?
The pick-up reached Norogachi just before eleven. He recognized it now – the two barrack-like buildings sandwiching the adobe church with its corrugated-iron roof, the convent school and the small hospital. If he walked a little further down the road he would be able to see the Copper Canyon stretching and deepening into the distance.
He walked the other way, following the directions Paco had given him to a small adobe house near the river. As he walked towards the door two men emerged, one of them cradling an AK47 in his arms.
Docherty stopped. ‘I would like to see Manolo Torres,’ he said, reaching slowly into his pocket. ‘I have a letter of introduction from his cousin.’
The one without the gun came forward to take it, then disappeared inside the house. A few moments later another man emerged, gesturing Docherty forward. ‘I am Manolo,’ he said. He had the same mouth as Paco, but his nose was sharper, the eyes even darker. And he looked more wary, which probably wasn’t surprising.
He led Docherty through to the yard behind the house, stopping on the way to pour his guest a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. A long bench stood up against the house and a few feet away an antique typewriter sat on a collapsible metal table. On the other side of the yard two women were sitting outside an outhouse, rolling ground corn into tortilla balls.
‘I remember your first visit,’ Manolo said conversationally. ‘I was only about ten.’
He didn’t have the full use of his left arm, Docherty noticed, and wondered if that was a consequence of the beatings he had received. ‘Your family treated me very well,’ he said, conscious of how inadequate the words sounded.
Manolo nodded. ‘So what do you want from me?’ he asked. ‘Paco says you are an enemy of Payán, and that you need help, but help with what?’
Docherty began at the beginning.
The minibus got back to Creel just before dark, and after showering off the dust Carmen and Shepreth walked down the main street in search of somewhere nice to eat. Although it had been a gruelling day neither felt tired, and both were aware that they felt easier with the other, as if some invisible bridge had been crossed. In the restaurant they worked their way through a bottle of wine and talked about everything but the reason they were here in the mountains of northern Mexico, only realizing that the establishment was closing when the proprietor started stacking chairs on the other tables.
Not wanting the evening to end, they walked to the empty station, where the risen moon was reflecting in the rails. She took his arm as they walked down the dusty platform, and as they turne
d by the signal she stopped him and looked up into his eyes.
He leant down to kiss her, gently at first, and then, as their tongues entwined, with mounting passion.
He cradled her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. Like a little boy seeking reassurance, she thought, but there was kindness there too, and desire. She took one of his hands and placed it over her left breast, so he could feel the hardening of her nipple, and they kissed again. ‘I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,’ she told him.
‘That makes two of us.’
They walked back across the square, fighting and losing the temptation to run as they reached the main street. They rushed in through the hotel doors like a whirlwind, laughing their way up the stairs and clawing most of each other’s clothes off before he realized they’d forgotten to shut the door.
That done, they stood there embracing each other’s nakedness for a minute and more before lying down together, kissing and feeling each other’s excitement mount. As he finally entered her, Carmen had a sudden vision of her sister’s face, but when she opened her eyes to his all she saw was the mirror of her own desire.
Shortly after darkness filled the canyon two young Tarahumara arrived with the horses. Docherty, who had not ridden for more than a decade, mounted his with some trepidation, but the animal greeted him with nothing more fearsome than a stamping of the front foot. Manolo, who had abandoned his jeans for a more traditional-looking loincloth, looked as if he’d been born in the saddle.
They rode west down the canyon, keeping to the southern side of the swift-flowing river. The dirt track on the far bank would have allowed a faster pace, but Manolo was wary of meeting a four-wheel drive full of either Payán’s men or the local police. If anything went wrong he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been out.
After about an hour they left the canyon floor, turning up a long and gently sloping cleft which brought them out on to a moonlit rim about five hundred metres above the barely visible river. Another valley, steeper this time, led them up to a dry and broken plateau, and in a niche among the rocks Manolo made a fire and heated up maize coffee to wash down their tortillas. As they sat eating, the Tarahumara, his face thrown into stark relief by the firelight, recounted the story of his people’s struggle with Payán and the authorities. He didn’t glorify his own role; in fact he seemed genuinely amused by the fact that he had become a living symbol of the resistance. And he made no attempt to hide his feeling that they were fighting a losing battle.
Days of the Dead Page 21