“Maybe.” She sighs. “Until then, we’ll keep on as usual.”
“Niña Tere.” I put my chicken down. “Are you upset with me for leaving when I did? For not staying to fix the aqueduct?”
“Upset with you?” She covers her mouth and laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous, child. What could you have done? Reversed the earthquake?”
“I didn’t want to, you know, to abandon the community.”
“Abandon nothing! You spent two years with us. And for what? You didn’t need the water. You have a house in Hawai‘i with water that runs hot and cold, do you not?”
“That’s true,” I admit.
“The community was lucky to have you.”
From outside the house comes the sound of a southbound bus. The cobrador calls out a destination and rattles his coins. Rambo abandons his post at the side of our table and barks his way toward the entrance.
“Nora!” Niña Tere calls out before she’s even turned the corner. “Look who’s here.”
“Niña Malia!” Nora rushes in and hugs me where I sit. In her starchy school uniform and backpack, she presses her cheek against my shoulder.
I struggle to return the embrace without getting chicken grease all over the white of her blouse. Rambo paces anxious circles around the dirt floor.
“Run and change your clothes,” Niña Tere orders. “Then come and have some chicken.”
Nora does as she’s told.
“She looks even bigger than last time,” I say.
“That one.” Niña Tere rolls her eyes. “She grows each day. I fear she’ll be taller than you even.”
Nora emerges from the bedroom in her normal clothes: a plain green skirt, a secondhand American T-shirt—I’M A TOYS-“R”-US KID! written across the front—and rubber sandals. Niña Tere fetches her a plate and utensils. I pick up one of the retoasted tortillas, blistered black from its second turn on the comal.
“Niña Malia, have you come back to stay?” Nora asks.
Her question is innocent enough, but it rips open a gaping hole inside my gut, despite the big greasy meal.
“No, Nora,” I say. “I’ve come here to visit one last time before I go.”
“You’re still going to South America?”
I pause for a few seconds. “That’s right.” I nearly add “Someday,” the way that Elaine had hours earlier.
“Be careful,” she says.
“I will.”
Niña Tere rejoins us. “Isn’t this nice? Niña Malia brought you Campero.”
“Yes.” Nora’s fingers shine with the oil from the chicken. “But I’d rather she stayed here for good.”
Once again, this is likely the last time I’ll be inside this house, the last meal I’ll ever eat here. There will be no plaque or framed diploma to commemorate my exit. It’ll be as simple as walking away.
Though there is plenty more chicken in the box, we all stop eating. After a minute or so without conversation, Niña Tere finally says, “What heat, no?”
“What heat,” I repeat, taking the weather talk as a sign. I let out a long breath and say, “Well, it’s time for me to go.”
“So soon!” Niña Tere feigns surprise and starts to pack up the chicken box.
“You keep that,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” I stand, and they do the same. Nora hugs me around the waist, the way those unfamiliar children did during the earthquake. Niña Tere pats my shoulder.
“Take care of yourself,” she says.
We repeat our good-byes, while Rambo whines nervously in the background.
A local farmer, Don Chavelo, walks uphill as I exit. We exchange a little wave. He looks confused at the sight of me. I turn the key in the ignition and stare at the other houses in Cara Sucia. Across the street, Felix’s cross still stands in the courtyard, though the flowers upon it are now all brown and withered. I consider going over and offering my condolences to his grandmother, telling her good-bye, but I can’t quite make the walk.
For nearly two years, my subconscious prophecy about leaving this place involved triumph, running water in every house. Somehow, I can’t settle for less. Whether or not it’s my fault, this alternative feels too much like failure.
As I leave town, I see other men I once ordered around in the hills not far from here, while they built what I thought of then as my life’s work. I see my hubris and helplessness measured out in several more worthless water taps hovering above empty cisterns.
And while I do feel personal disappointment as I drive out of Cara Sucia, I can’t convince myself that it makes much difference. My project wouldn’t have resurrected this fallen country. It would have offered only a small measure of comfort to one tiny village within a badly broken nation. More than anything, it was a way to convince myself that—for a little while—I wasn’t making things worse.
19
Ben swings in the hammock outside our room, a Salvadoran newspaper on his lap.
“Want some chicken?” I climb out of the car and set the second box on the hood.
Ben stands. “That took a while.” His voice is studded with suspicion.
“I went by Cara Sucia on the way back.” I remind myself that this is nothing to be ashamed of. “How are the waves?”
Ben gives a thumbs-down, then reaches for the Campero box.
“I got you this.” I take the rolling tobacco out of my purse and place it on the hood.
“Thanks.” Hands full of chicken, Ben lets the pouch lie there.
“Any news from Peseta?” I ask.
“Yeah. Somebody put newspaper between Crackito’s toes while he was asleep on the seawall, then lit it on fire and ran away. Poor kid woke up with burning feet and fell down onto the rocks.” Ben manages to suppress a chuckle at the cruel prank. He takes a bite.
“I meant about my passport.” I pick up the tobacco and roll a cigarette, hoping Ben won’t notice that the pouch has already been opened.
“No.” He covers his full mouth with a hand. “Haven’t heard anything about that.”
I find a plastic lighter on the windowsill and light up.
“You don’t want any chicken?” Ben sits back down in the hammock.
“I already ate.”
A flush sounds from the shared toilets. Pelochucho emerges from one of the stalls, both his eye patch and his big sunglasses on, that same faded surf magazine tucked under one arm. “Do I smell Campero?”
“Help yourself.” I gesture toward the box.
“So, Chinita.” Without washing his hands, Pelo takes out a drumstick and bites into it. “We need to talk.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “You’re broke.”
“There is a sense in which that’s true.” Pelo holds the chicken leg before his mouth like a microphone. “You know, during Donald Trump’s divorce, he went walking with his daughter in Manhattan and they passed this homeless man. Trump whispered into the little girl’s ear, ‘Sweetie, that man has ten billion dollars more than Daddy does.’”
“Is this a parable or something?” I ask.
“Because of all the debt, you know. But who would you want to switch places with?” Pelo takes a bite of chicken. He looks back and forth between Ben and me, perhaps worried that we might choose the homeless man.
“The point is”—Pelo waves his free hand in a circle, erasing the story from an imaginary blackboard—“in this day and age, it’s not about how much money you have, but about how nimbly you can move that money through space and time.”
“Pelo, no offense,” I say, “but what does this have to do with us?”
“I went online today,” he says. “I’ve got some investors who sound interested in the surf resort. A while back, I sent out a few queries—mostly to be polite to some guys I know, returning favors and whatnot. I never expected to have help.”
“Congratulations,” I say. “Please be careful. And when did you start calling it a resort?”
“I told them about your concerns.
They’re not trying to cut corners. They want to do this right.” He points his now nearly meatless chicken bone at me. “They’re interested in you, Chinita.”
I shrug. “Interested?”
“It would be a consulting position. You could come up with your own title—environmental engineer or sustainable development officer—whatever’s best for your résumé.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“This would not be like before.” Pelo lets the bone hang limp between his fingers. “You’d be an expert, not a gofer. No stupid errands, nothing like that. And I wouldn’t be the one paying you. Your contract would be through the LLC we’re setting up. I want to call it SalvaCorp. What kind of salary are you thinking? Does a grand a week sound okay?”
“Wait.” I’m confused. “So I’d consult on this thing, but who’d have the final say? I mean, if my input is ‘Don’t build on that hillside,’ will your people listen?”
“They want to do it like you said the other night—with the walls and the gutters and the planted hillside and everything.”
Both Ben and Pelo stare at me, anxious for a response.
“Hold on a minute.” I take a seat beside Ben in the hammock and slow my thoughts. “What’s the time line here? We’re trying to go on a trip.”
“No worries.” Pelochucho looks inside the chicken box. “We could write this arrangement up for something like a six- to eight-week commitment, then go month to month after that. And once you leave, we can stay in touch through e-mail or phone. Hell, if there’s anything that’s super important, we’ll fly you in from Chile or Peru or wherever. That’s a no-brainer.”
Ben and I steal a glance at each other. He raises his eyebrows.
“I’d like to get your input on some other possibilities, too. Have you seen this?” Pelo takes that same old surf magazine out from under his arm and waves it at us. “I want a piece of this Wild East thing. Do you two know anything about boats?”
“No,” I reply before Ben has a chance to. “El Cuco—the Wild East or whatever—it’s different.” Ben and I took a hitchhiking expedition out there last Semana Santa. We camped right at the base of one of the points and paid a local family for our meals and water. “There’s not much there.”
“There’s waves.” Pelo pulls out a chicken breast, takes one bite out of it, then throws it back into the box. “That’s good enough for me.”
“It’s far away. From everything. They’ve got serious squatters’ rights laws in this country, you know.”
“We’d have to hire a caretaker. Are you guys sure you don’t have any capital you want to put into this?” He points at the magazine.
“Pelo, that issue is like six months old.”
“Exactly. From before the quake, right? It’s a buyer’s market—now more than ever.”
“People lost their homes,” I say. “People died. Can you think of anything else besides how desperate they might be to sell their land?”
“Again with the high-and-mighty routine.” He rolls his one good eye. “You gotta understand, Chinita: Surfing is the new golf. And you can’t build a point break in Palm fucking Springs. This is happening. You can watch from the sidelines or get into the game.”
Ben stays silent, still seated in the hammock.
“Shit. I’m not as bad as some of the players,” Pelo mutters. “Have you heard about that Florida kid down in Nicaragua? Dude was dynamiting the reef to give the waves better shape.”
Ben speaks up at last. “Guys, could we maybe stick to the K Ninety-nine thing? That’s all that’s really on the table right now, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely!” Pelo puts the magazine down on the hood of the Jeep. “As usual, Chuck Norris is the voice of reason. The K Ninety-nine surf resort is a green light. Everything else is pie in the sky.”
Both of them turn their eyes toward me.
“What do you say, Chinita?” Pelo takes his bit-into chicken breast back out of the box. He rips off a piece of white meat and sticks it inside his mouth. “Hang around. Make a little jing. Wait for your passport. Hold that hillside together for future generations. Give some free rainwater to some poor families. It’s a good deal.”
The two of them stare at me, waiting. Working for Pelo got us into this mess. Ben might not see it that way, but staying here to help him out was where things started to go wrong, the original mistake from which all our other mistakes sprang.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It doesn’t feel right.”
Ben lets out an exasperated sigh. “I need a beer.” He walks off toward the kitchen, flip-flops slapping extra hard against the ground.
“I’m not into the whole high-end surf tourism thing.” I mean the explanation for Ben, but Pelochucho is the only one left to hear it.
Pelo takes a step closer to me. He raises his sunglasses up so that his one good eye and his cloth eye patch are both exposed. Once Ben is out of earshot, Pelo lowers his voice and says, “Chinita, who is Alex?”
I look up. My tongue turns dry and thick inside my mouth. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”
“Oh yeah.” Pelo giggles. “Little blast from the past, huh?”
I hear the top pop off a bottle. Across the courtyard, Ben stands by the kitchen. He lifts the full Regia to his lips and takes the first big gulp.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your phone call yesterday. I happened to be in Kristy’s bedroom at the time.”
I look over his shoulder. Always empty during waking hours, Kristy’s tiny bedroom is alongside the office, a few feet from where I stood speaking into the phone.
“Nothing happened,” I say.
Pelo puts a hand up over his mouth. “You got drunk and fucked this guy. You didn’t tell Ben.” He squints. “Nothing?”
Over by the kitchen, Ben wipes his lips with his forearm, then starts back toward us.
“Why are you saying this?” I ask Pelo in a whisper.
“I want your help with this resort thing; that’s all. It’s a good option—for all of us. I’m happy to keep a secret, for a friend. I’m less inclined to do that for somebody who turns her nose up at all my ideas.”
Furious, I stare into his one good eye. He takes a couple steps backward as Ben approaches.
“So,” Ben says. “What do we do now?”
Pelo lowers his shades. A second of tense silence passes.
“I’m in.” I keep my eyes on the reflective surface of Pelochucho’s sunglasses. “I can commit to three weeks for now—that should be time enough to get my passport. We can go week by week after that.”
“Yes!” Pelochucho holds his fists up in triumph. He high-fives Ben and me.
I feel decent for a moment or two. Perhaps I can engineer my way out of the errors of the past couple days. I can salvage our budget and rescue our trip. Maybe I can finally save one little corner of El Salvador, too, resurrect a single eroding hillside in a nation densely packed with them. It’s no Red Cross, but it’s something. Still, I loathe the idea of working for Pelochucho and his investor friends.
“All right.” Pelo grins. “I’ll get back online and see what we can hammer out. We should know the details by tomorrow.”
“I’m going to check the surf,” I say.
Still in my embassy clothes, I walk out to the shore and sit on the stone steps. There isn’t much to see. The ocean is blown out, no inkling of a swell. Two stray dogs—one white and one dark brown—wade out into the water as if to bathe.
Once I finally turn away from the ocean, I see Crackito limping toward me.
“Una moneda?” He holds out his hand and looks as if he doesn’t remember me.
The rumors about the burning-foot prank are true. His face bears scratches and a bruise. Black spots and a single red blister cover the favored foot.
First, I think about the spare pieces of cold chicken back at the hotel. But after a second, I reach into my pocket and pull out a handful of coins. For once, I don’t care what he does with them.
&n
bsp; Before Crackito can take off, Ben comes to join us.
“Do you see that?” he asks Crackito in Spanish.
“See what?”
“Blowfish, right there.” Ben points. “On the beach.”
Both Crackito and I scan the shoreline. Finally, I see it: a bloated purple fish with short, sharp spines extended, lying among the shells and seaweed at the tide line.
“C’mon,” Ben says to Crackito. “Let’s throw rocks at it.”
The boy hesitates for a second, the coins in his pocket pulling him to that white-and-red house up the street.
“C’mon!” Ben insists.
The two of them go down to the beach. Ben uses his foot to draw a couple of lines in the sand. He picks up the swollen fish by the tail, drops it behind one of the lines. Both of them gather a handful of smooth black rocks.
I see Peseta making his rounds on the street near our hotel. I turn and whistle, make a motion for him to come closer.
He pauses, perhaps still weary of me after our late-night encounter at the crack house. But in the end, he walks over, his too-big sandals shuffling against the pavement.
“Chinita,” he says. “What’s shaking?”
Ben and Crackito begin their game. The two of them take turns chucking rocks from behind their baseline at the blowfish several yards away. Crackito has a furious pitcher-on-the-mound-style windup. Ben’s is a smooth and casual underarm throw. The two wet dogs come out of the water and watch, excited by the flying stones. They wag their tails and bark at the impacts.
“You still have that doctor friend?” I ask Peseta.
“Of course,” he says. “You need something?”
“Valium.” I take a bill from out of my Che wallet and hand it to him. “Can you bring it to La Posada?” I can’t handle another sleepless night.
“No problem.” Peseta puts the money inside his fist and takes off down the street.
A squishing sound comes from the beach. Crackito giggles in triumph. Ben claps and offers his congratulations, raises the little boy’s hand up in the air like a prizefighter’s. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Crackito smile. It makes him look exactly like the child that he is.
* * *
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