“What were you doing in 1981?” I asked Alex.
“I was four,” he said. “That’s when my parents finished the house I grew up in. I don’t remember that, but there’s a little plate by the door with the date engraved on it.”
“What happened here?” I asked.
He turned away from the memorial and looked out at the town. “News of a big offensive had gotten around.”
It was as if he’d memorized passages from whatever book he’d read.
“One of the local men—the store owner, I think—sent word to all the villages and provinces that there would soon be heavy fighting. He told the women and children to come here to the town, where they’d be safer.”
Alex took a few steps down one of the dirt streets along the plaza and looked up at the houses. “All of the homes were crowded with people, family and friends who’d come in from the campo, frightened strangers needing shelter.”
I followed him as he took more steps down the block, my arms crossed in front of my chest. A mountain breeze blew cool air against our skin.
“Then the Atlacatl showed up.”
“Who?”
“The Atlacatl. They were a battalion trained by our government, at the School of the Americas. This bloodthirsty asshole named Monterrosa was in charge.”
“What does that mean, Atlacatl?”
“The name comes from an indigenous warrior who fought against the Spanish conquest. Before the war, he was a kind of folk hero for the country.”
“They might’ve named the money after him.” I swallowed and noticed that my hands were trembling. “Instead of Columbus.”
“Now that name only means murder,” Alex went on. “So they found all these civilians, but no guerillas. They ordered everybody out of the houses and had them lie down on the ground. They stuck machine guns at the backs of their heads and asked stupid questions about the Frente. Then they made everyone lock themselves in their houses, and said that anybody who stepped outside would be shot. The next day, all the people were dragged to the plaza again. Men were separated from women and children and locked up in groups. Most were in the church.” He pointed at the empty lot that was now right beside us. A little fence surrounded it, a stone pedestal with a plaque in the center.
I thought of Niña Tere. Had she seen anything like this? Did she hear about it on Radio Venceremos, perhaps?
“The men were first,” he continued. “The soldiers went ahead with their bullshit interrogation, then moved on to torturing and killing, while the wives and children screamed from inside the locked buildings. That took most of the morning. Around noon, they switched to the women. Girls were raped and then shot down. The little children were the last.”
The sides of my eyes grew moist. I clenched my teeth and breathed out through my nostrils.
“They burned down the buildings. When the first reports came out, our government denied it. Reagan called it ‘communist propaganda.’”
“Men.” I spat out the word as though it had a bad taste. “Men with guns killing women and kids.”
I put my hand out and Alex took hold of it. We each squeezed hard. With my other hand, I brushed away the beginnings of tears. He put his arm around me and turned back to the iron silhouettes on the memorial. We shared an embrace there, in the middle of the town square. My face pressed into Alex’s chest. I looked up, past the bullet-riddled houses and into the hills beyond. El Salvador’s beauty and terror spread itself out in ridges and wrinkles all the way to the horizon.
Though it was barely twenty years old, I was dumb enough to believe that this atrocity was never to be repeated. I saw this as a dark age from which this nation was emerging.
But more than anything, as I stood there in that killing field with the boy I loved, I felt the exquisite sensation of my ego slipping momentarily away. For a second, I wasn’t the hero of my own drama, but just a bit player in something bigger and much more meaningful. Looking back now, it fills me with an odd sense of guilt—like we were indulging in some creepy form of tragedy tourism.
I pulled Alex even closer to me and rubbed my hand up and down his spine. Clouds moved in from the east. History sprouted up all around us like the blades of tall grass. That was one thing about being Alex’s girlfriend: It always felt important.
16
Morning sunlight shines through the sole window in Alex’s room. His slender arms still wrap around me. For the first time, I see the scars along his wrist. They are many, done in a haphazard mess—as random a series of lines as those galvanized pipes scattered down my riverbed. What did I expect—a single deep and decisive cut on each arm? I run my fingers along the raised mounds of flesh, as though they are a kind of Braille and I can tease a meaning out of them if I concentrate. My mind’s eye tries to picture Alex in the act. Was he uncertain? Could he barely bring himself to make the deepest cut? I allow myself to wonder: Did he ever mean to go through with it? Or was this a desperate plea for attention—a cry for help, as they say?
Alex stirs as my fingers touch the scar tissue. He wakes with a series of jolts and shudders—another habit I remember well from our days as a couple but do not miss.
I climb out of bed and dress in the things I’ve left scattered about the floor: bikini, borrowed clothes, dime-store rubber sandals.
“Malia.” Alex rises and sits up on the bed. “I’m sorry.”
For a second, I wonder if I can lay the blame on his shoulders. Can I compose a version of last night in which I was drunk and he took advantage? I try that out for half a second but can’t sell it even to myself.
“It’s my fault.” I pick the bills up off the floor and stuff them back into my bikini top. “I have to go,” I tell him, without any real idea what time it is.
“You don’t have to go, Malia.” The pink marks on his forearm look like their own odd form of clothing. “That’s the one thing you should get straight in your mind: You do not have to go.”
“Good-bye.” I leave the apartment without a kiss or hug.
* * *
It takes a while to find the car. The gate of the Estancia is visible a few doors from my parking spot. I look down at my skirt and top, knowing I should return them. But then I recall Courtney’s disappointed parting glance last night, and I can’t bring myself to face her.
As I pull the door handle on the Jeep, I realize that I don’t have a choice: She’s got my keys.
Luckily, Niña Ana is up and buzzes me in. She has a habit of boiling tap water and then cooling it in the fridge for her guests. I take out one glass bottle and drink the entire thing in a series of bubbling gulps. Gingerly, I push open the door to Courtney’s room.
Inside, half a dozen bodies lie across the mattresses in various states of drooling, snoring, hungover slumber. Courtney’s things are arranged upon a folding chair by her bed. Searching underneath a couple layers of clothes, I find my car keys tucked inside her shoe.
So they don’t jingle, I wrap my fingers tightly around the keys and make my way to the door.
“That was a shitty move you pulled last night.” Courtney’s voice shocks me so much, I put a hand over my heart.
“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.” I speak softly, hoping not to wake this roomful of sleepers.
“Sorry.” Her eyes hardly open. Her head turns slightly upward off the pillow. “Just thought you should know.”
I want her on my side. So often, she’s been my confidante in times like these. “I fucked up last night,” I say. “Cut me a little slack.”
“You can’t have your cake and eat it, too, Malia.”
A grumble comes from a body in one of the other beds.
“I know,” I whisper. “I’m a little confused about things.…”
“Try not to mess with too many other lives while you figure it out, okay?”
I don’t have a response to that. Why is she being so cruel? “Courtney, did you … Were you hoping that you and Alex might…?”
“Would you all shut the fuc
k up, please?” bellows a voice I don’t recognize.
Courtney doesn’t answer me.
“Is that what this is about?” I suppose the better part of my interest is pure curiosity. But another part, from a deeper and darker place, feels that she’s violated some unwritten code. It’s true that I’m with someone else and all, and technically on my way out of this country. But Alex is my ex. And Courtney is my best female friend. There’s some sort of rule against that, isn’t there?
“That’s not even the point, Malia.”
“Shut up!” The same sleeper throws a pillow, which lands near my feet.
It occurs to me that I might not see Courtney again for a long time, years even. “Thanks for everything you did for me yesterday. You’re a good friend and you’re right: I messed up. I hope you’ll forgive me.” I leave the room, grateful that nobody asked me to return the borrowed clothes.
Traffic is light for a weekday morning. Large H signs point the way to the hospital. Young boys carry tins of Spanish olive oil between the cars at every stoplight. The oil was Spain’s primary form of aid to their former colony in the wake of the earthquake. It’s given out in shelters and refugee camps. Nobody in this country knows what to do with the stuff. It smokes too much to fry with. Teenagers sell gallons of it for pennies. Salvadoran cooks often dump the expensive oil out upon the ground so that they can use the sturdy tins for something else.
* * *
Luckily, there’s a parking spot close to the building where I left Ben and Pelochucho. I buy sweet bread from a cart outside.
“You look like shit,” Ben says to me.
“I didn’t sleep well. Brought you some food.” I hold out the bag of baked goods, hoping its aroma might mask the smell of cigarette smoke, that the cigarette smoke might mask the smell of sex.
Pelochucho stirs, says hello, and bites into one of the sugar-encrusted rolls.
“How was the floor?” I ask Ben, looking down at his makeshift pile of cushions.
“Not so bad.” He shrugs. “I was tired.”
“And the patient?” I ask Pelo.
“Ready to get the hell out of here.” His mouth is full of eggy dough.
“You smell like cigarettes,” Ben says.
“I smoked some on the drive.”
He nods but doesn’t look convinced.
Checking out of the hospital takes longer than expected. Ben and I leave Pelo in the room and sort things out with the clerks at the front desk. They give us syringes and a vial of antibiotics to inject into Pelochucho’s ass, as well as spare bandages and an eye patch. Ben hands over the rest of his money—everything we “earned” from Pelo yesterday. That barely covers the bill.
Again, I ride in the plywood storage space. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m thankful not to have to make conversation. My hangover reaches fever pitch on the ride back as we descend toward the coast. It brings gallons of guilt along with it. In one long evening and a short bit of morning, I’ve lost two of my closest friends in this country, and managed to cheat on Ben in the bargain. I keep thinking of Alex’s last words to me, about not needing to leave, and Courtney’s accusation that I want to have my cake and eat it, too. It’s true: I want to go south and surf, to leave behind the ruins of this place and get some waves, to see Patagonia and toss those stones Ben’s always talking about into the sea. But I also want to stay and set things right, to help heal El Salvador and make my father proud. The two possibilities wrestle with each other inside my mind. I wonder if my Hawaiian ancestors had a way of choosing between competing kuleana. Perhaps those were simpler times. In the end, I decide the best thing is to convince Ben to leave as soon as possible. At least that way, my indecision can’t cause any more trouble.
The more I commit to it, the more it seems that all my problems stem from our still being in this country. Indeed, we’ve stayed in El Salvador just a couple days too long. I worry that now Ben will feel obliged to stick around and take care of Pelochucho.
* * *
The engine cuts off. We’re back in La Posada. I want to speak with Ben about our departure, but I need to get cleaned up and have a nap first, maybe a beer as well.
Ben comes around and opens the back for me. Pelochucho works his way out of the passenger seat in a jerky, one-eyed hobble, his legs still stiff from so many hours in bed. Kristy runs over the second she sees his bandages and helps him to the room. Pelo explains the accident with Spanglish and hand gestures.
“I’m dying for a shower.” I climb off the plywood platform.
“Wait,” Ben says. “What’s that?” He points toward our bedroom.
“What are you talking about?”
“The window.”
My eyes follow the invisible line extending from his index finger. Our single bedroom window is a louver—a screenless series of glass slats operated from inside by a crank. And at the bottom left-hand corner, where Ben points, two of the slats have been pushed inward and lie cockeyed on the rack.
“Where’s the key?” Ben feels the pocket of his shorts.
“I don’t have it,” I say.
“Fuck!” Ben walks over to the window and sticks his hand through the space made by the moved louvers. “How is this possible? Motherfuckers came in here during broad daylight?” He cups his hand around his mouth. “Kristy!” he shouts.
“Ben, stop,” I say. “I think it happened last night.”
He squints, confused. “You didn’t hear anything? You didn’t notice it this morning?”
“It’s not like that.” I swallow. “I didn’t come back here. I stayed in the capital.”
This information only confuses him more. “Why?”
“I got lost. I went in circles in the traffic. It was getting dark. Then I saw Boulevard de los Heroes and drove to the Estancia. Courtney was there.”
He turns toward the window and studies the breached panes of glass. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know.” I sift through the memory of our morning conversation, reconsidering what was a lie and what was merely an omission. “It never came up.”
“‘Never came up’?” Anger swells inside his voice. He takes a few steps toward me. “What about the drive?”
“What?”
“You said you smoked cigarettes on the drive. But there was no drive.”
“Did I say that? I’m sorry. We went out. I’m not sure why I didn’t mention it. I didn’t think you needed to know.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The jealous streak that Ben always warned me about takes over the microphone. His hands clasp my upper arms. Pupils swiveling within the now-round whites, his eyes lock onto mine. “What is going on? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No!” It isn’t hard to act offended, especially with a stiff thumb pressing into my biceps. Though my answer isn’t quite true, it feels like the best option, given the circumstances.
Ben doesn’t speak, just holds me tighter in his hands. With our faces so close together, both of us breathing hard, me making my best doe eyes, there’s something dirty about the whole exchange—a scene from a bad porno film.
“I was with my friends,” I say, a statement that is marginally true—at least they were still my friends when the evening started. “All I wanted was a night out with some of the other volunteers. I had fun.” The explanation is for myself as much as for Ben. That’s all I meant for last night to be. And it was nearly a success, but for one big mistake toward the end.
He releases me and takes a couple steps backward, holding his hands away from his body, fingers splayed, like they’re sharp objects to be handled with care. He turns his head to the side and nods, then closes his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Ben sticks a hand into each armpit and squeezes them there. “I’m so sorry, Malia.” He looks up at me with a furrowed brow. “I trust you. I swear I do.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
Though I’d never admit it, Ben’s jealousy is something I find oddly end
earing. Among my small circle of college friends, and even more so among the volunteers here, couples are so often changing places, people playing musical lovers. There are jokes about it, as if it’s no big deal. This is the first time I’ve seen Ben get so far out of control, and it did scare me, so much so that I felt compelled to lie. But at least he takes our relationship seriously.
“Let’s find that fucking key.” Ben opens the door to the Jeep and rifles though the console. I walk over to the bedroom window and look inside. The bedside table is directly below. Several items are still upon it: a tube of sunscreen, a half-used bar of surf wax. But I don’t see the woven wallet that I bought in Guatemala last year.
“It’s gone,” I whisper to myself. “It’s gone.”
Ben finds the key and works the door open. Inside, he kneels down, peeks under the bed, picks up pillows, then sheets, tosses them in the air.
I follow him into the room. My purse is tucked inside my backpack in the far corner. I check it, but I already know I won’t find what I’m looking for. “They got my wallet,” I tell Ben.
“Are you sure?” His face reddens. He digs his arms into the top of his backpack up to the elbows.
“Positive.”
He throws a few things into the air, opens and closes a couple zippered compartments. “Fuck! They got my bank card.”
Ben runs out of the room. I follow. He puts his elbows on the hood of the Jeep and buries his face in his hands. “What was in your wallet?” he finally asks.
“The airfare cash, all my bank stuff,” I say. “And my passport.” To myself, I recall the Red Cross business card Alex gave me at the Peace Corps office; it was in there as well.
Ben makes a guttural draining sound. “Fuck.” He covers his face with his hands. I wonder if he might be crying. After a couple seconds of that, he stands up straight. He shakes his head first and then his whole body, like a dog drying off.
The shaking stops and he sighs. “My passport is still in the car. You should get on the phone. Call the bank first. Maybe Jim knows somebody we can talk to at the embassy. I’ll go find Peseta.”
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