by Ginny Aiken
“Hi,” I say. “Thank you. Buena siesta. Gracias.
”
My pathetic stab at Spanish goes a long way. Before long, I too am sitting at the table, a plate full of food in front of me. I dig in, and discover what true Latin food tastes like. Forget chain restaurants with cute little Chihuahua mascots.
If you want the real deal, you’ll have to cross south of the border, many borders, to Anita’s kitchen way out here in the middle of nowhere.
When I’m—as we say in the South—full as a tick, I scoot my chair back and just breathe. Um-yum. “Muy bueno.”
“So your Spanish has made a comeback,” Max says as he rises from a nest of blankets on the sofa, his voice rough with sleep. “But I agree with you. Anita’s food is good enough to make me speak a language I don’t know.”
“Foul! You’re telling me you got away without having to take a foreign language in college?”
“Don’t you dare give me grief about my football years. I’ll remind you, I went to school on an academic scholarship, not an athletic one.”
Just to tease him, I sniff. “So you say. But who knows? Maybe you thought it was an academic scholarship, while all the while it was your muscles they wanted.”
He shakes his head. “Give it up, Andi-ana Jones. I didn’t imagine my 4.0 in high school or my 4.0 in college.”
My eyes goggle. “You got a clean-sweep 4.0?” When he nods, I realize something else. “Then that means . . . oh no. I don’t think I can stand this. Your summa cum laude trumps my magna cum laude. Aaaarrrgh!
”
He blows on his nails and buffs them against his filthy shirt.
“Well, that”—I point at his hand—“just shows how little you really do know. You swiped your nails on the dirtiest piece of clothing I’ve ever seen. They’re probably black with dirt now. From our jail’s floor, if you’ll remember.”
“Which brings us right back to why we’re here.” He sighs. “I’m not sure how we’re going to communicate with Anita and Enrique over there, but we have to get them to understand how urgent it is for us to get to the capital, and soon.”
“We’ll just have to go back to bed, rest up for the trip, and wait until Laura wakes up. She’s really going to earn that piggyback ride you gave her.”
“She’s sweet. I can’t imagine the pain she’s in, and she’s never once said a word about it.”
“She’s a great kid. I wish we could get word to her father. He must be frantic.”
Max winces. “She must have been kidnapped right after we left the mine site. Rodolfo must be going out of his mind with worry.” He runs a hand through his blond hair, leaving some of it standing on end, some tumbled over his forehead. “I know I’d be tearing up the country end to end if she was my daughter and she’d just gone missing.”
“What makes you think he isn’t?”
“True. We have no way to know what he’s been doing since we left the mine.”
As we both fall silent remembering the emerald vendor, I realize how intently Anita and Enrique have been following our conversation. I know they can’t understand a word we’ve said, but their eyes have ping-ponged back and forth between Max and me the whole time. Then, as the silence lengthens, Anita skitters to the ancient stove out back and heaps more food on another plate.
A stream of chatter ripples from her when she returns. She points to Max, the table, and finally the food.
He grins. “My turn—again.”
“No need to boast,” I counter. “I’ll get my fair share of her good cooking. Not that we’re going to stay long, but I suspect you’ll sleep more than I will. You’re the one who carried Laura all that way.”
“And you figure you’ll sneak a snack while I’m sawing logs.”
“You snooze, you lose.”
“We’ll see.”
From the back bedroom, I hear Laura call my name. Before I can make it to her side, Max has sped past and left me in his dust—not literally, you understand. As poor as Anita and Enrique are, that’s just how clean they keep their home.
Moments later, Max carries Laura into the kitchen. “She’s hungry.”
“Lucky you,” I tell the girl, holding out a chair for her. “Anita’s food is a treat. I’m just too full from the heaps she fed me while you were sleeping. Otherwise, I’d probably keep on pigging out.”
Laura wrinkles her nose. “Pigging out?”
I laugh. “You speak such great English it’s hard to remember sometimes that you’re not American. ‘Pigging out’ means I’d make a pig of myself eating too much.”
“Ah . . . I see.” She takes a mouthful of her dinner. “But it works another way too. Anita’s pork is delicious. It’s their own pigs, the ones they raise to sell. She is a very good cook, you know. This roast is wonderful.”
At the mention of Anita and Enrique’s livestock, Max and I swap looks.
“We have to ask how they get their animals to market,” he says to Laura. “Can you do that?”
While Max and I watch—I guess it’s our turn to ping-pong our gazes between the three of them—a whole lot of chatter, smiles, and hand waving happens. Then Laura turns back to us, uncertainty on her face.
Uh-oh. Doesn’t look good. Even though I’d tried to catch a random word here or there, I’d failed. My returning Spanish isn’t returning that much. Then again, I suspect more was said than I would have wished. “So what’s the scoop?”
She looks lost. “Scoop?”
I shake my head and give her a crooked grin. “Me and my slang. What I mean is, what did they tell you?”
A tiny line etches in between her eyebrows. “I don’t know if it will help us. They say they take their products to a tiny little town, San José de Belén, on their cart. Enrique pulls it along behind his bicycle.”
I hold back a groan and turn to Max. “You never told me you had prophetic tendencies. Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned carts or bicycles when we got here.”
Max arches a brow. “So now it’s my fault, just because I was looking for a silver lining in our thunderstorm.”
I chuckle. “If the hat fits, then use it as sunscreen, surfer boy.”
Just as I say those words, I realize what I’ve done. Never in the year-plus since we met have I let Max know how I think of him. Until now. Chalk it up to stress, the foreignness of it all, the possible necessity of riding a cart out of our mess. Who knows why my flap-trap let it out? The deal is, it did.
Max’s jaw drops. Total “Huh?” blares from his eyes. He blinks. Sticks a finger in an ear and shakes it. “Say what?”
I hoot—not ready to go where he wants me to go. “Have we been rubbing off on you or what? That ‘say what’ means you’ve become an honorary southerner, Max, my man.”
He gives me another befuddled look. “Last time I checked, Missouri’s considered south. I lived and worked there for five years before Miss Mona hired me. ‘Say what’s’ pretty common in Missouri, as far as I can tell. What’s weird is that whole surfer boy thing. What are you talking about?”
My cheeks burn hotter than a jalapeño in your taco filling, but I try to bluff my way out of my blunder. “Oh, nothing. Just something that popped out.”
He crosses his arms. “Uh-huh. And I’m one of those infamous flying pigs.”
Try habañero peppers—I hear say they’re hotter’n jala-peños any day. After all, I’ve invoked the flying oinkers a time or two when thinking about Max. Which leads me to say, “Oink-oink.”
“Not so funny.” He stares—hard. “Trust me. You and I are going to have that long, long talk I’ve been wanting sooner rather than later. And you won’t be able to run, like your smart mouth does.”
I know, I know, I know. It takes all my strength to keep from wincing. Even if in my heart I’m wimping out, as I always do. “Let’s get to business, then. What do you want to do?”
He shrugs. “I don’t see that there’s much to do. We load Laura into the cart, hitch it up to the bike, and I pedal he
r out of here.”
“He—llooooh!” I wave. “Did you just forget me? I’m here too. How’m I going to get to . . . to that San Somebody or Other?”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “You might want to walk.” His eyes twinkle.
My temper soars. “Why don’t I bike her out while you walk?”
“Fine by me. But when you can’t get the cart to move two inches, don’t ask me why it’s not working. It’s called muscle mass, Andie. And I’ve got it. You don’t.”
I sag. “You’ve got a point. But you’re not going to ride off into the sunset and leave me eating your dust, are you?”
He grows surprisingly serious. “I told you before, and I meant it. We’re partners. Don’t you ever—get it? Ever— forget it.”
My heart does a flip. But then my gut does a flop. He’s saying something without saying something. Know what I mean?
I take a deep breath. I nod.
Then I head to the bedroom. I drop to my knees by my bed and pray. “Lord Jesus . . . I need your courage. Why’d I turn out to be such a wimp? What’s there to be afraid of?
He’s just a man like a million others. And he’s never done anything deliberately deceitful, nor has he taken advantage of Miss Mona’s kindness or generosity. Why do I let my past color how I see him? Help me follow your leading. Help me trust.”
So if God’s on my side, and he says in his Word that he gives us the desires of our heart, then why do I have to find myself in mess after mess after mess?
I have prayed for peace and calm. Many a time.
So yeah. You get the picture. The next morning I wind up trotting by the cart behind the bike on our way to San José. I do get stuck eating Max’s dust—literally, if not figuratively. He might not have left me behind, but half of me starts to wish he had.
Let’s face it. This is not the way a business trip should go. Especially since we trade our disgustingly dirty clothes for whatever the neighbors around Anita’s house can offer. Trust me, wrong-size campesino clothing—peasant’s garments— aren’t much to write home about, but for Anita, Enrique, and their neighbors, they represent the best they have. And they helped us however they could. Gladly.
I’ve never felt so humbled by someone else’s generosity. Or guilty. They pretty much gave us everything they had. Faith in God’s provision? Oh yeah. They have that. And then some. I can only hope to do as much, and I promise I will, as soon as I get back home.
Note to self: send clothes to Anita. Send money. Send furniture, food, and letters to the American embassy. The embassy needs to help these dear folks; they need to help them build a road from their tiny neighborhood to a decent market where they can sell their products, electricity to their homes—refrigerators would be nice—and a clinic in the region would do wonders for their health. Anything. Everything. Whatever. The kindness of these campesinos deserves a generous reward.
Still, here we are, on the road to that San José de Belén, wearing clothes that don’t fit, me running like a puppy dog, Max pedaling for all he’s worth, and Laura biting her bottom lip to keep from crying out at the pain in her leg. Not great. But it’s the only way out of our dilemma.
Oh, so you figure things get better once we get to San José?
Think again.
When Laura explains our plight, we’re helped up into the bed of yet another rattletrap truck. You’d think we’d have better luck this time, right? Lightning’s not supposed to strike twice in the same spot. Well, let me tell you. It can. And does.
That’s why now I’m bouncing around the bed of the truck, holding my nose, wanting to plug my ears.
Oh. You want to know why?
Because our means of transportation is trucking along more than just us and the guy behind the wheel. At our backs, where we’re encouraged to lean, is the driver’s load of a quartet of pens. Sure, the pens are filled. He’s going to market. In Bogotá.
What’s he taking to market? Besides us?
If you haven’t figured it out yet, then I’m afraid you’re a banana short of a bunch.
Uh-huh. We’re on our way to Bogotá with a haul of sniffly, snuffly, grunty, grimy, beady-eyed, curly-tailed oinkers. Anyone who’s been downwind from a pig farm knows the truth. Pig poop stinks. Reeks.
It even beats Eau de Dead Dog.
1200
When we finally hit the outskirts of Bogotá, I draw in a piggy-scented breath of relief. We’re closer to getting outta Dodge—so to speak. And right now, from where I’m sitting, we need the American medical system big-time. I’m afraid Laura’s leg’s going to need surgery. It looks like a compound fracture that’s spent time growing back together without the bones being properly reset.
Not good.
I glance down at the sleeping girl whose head I’m pillowing against my thigh. My heart goes out to her, and I can’t help admiring her courage again. I send up a prayer for her recovery. It breaks my heart to think greed and brutality might maim her for life.
We can’t reach civilization soon enough for me.
“Getting closer,” Max murmurs.
“Okay, Matthews. When did you become some kind of mind reader?”
He reaches over and smoothes my wispy bangs across my forehead. “I haven’t. You’re just easy to read. At least, you are to me.”
The way he says it and the look he gives me make my heart hopscotch over a beat. I stare into those blue, blue eyes for long seconds, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unwilling to remember where we are.
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and draws me close to his side. “Relax,” he says. “We’re probably close to the market now, and then it’ll be all about calling the embassy for help.”
I lean into him, careful not to bump the sleeping Laura. Once I’m cradled against his shoulder, he leans close to my ear. “What about the emeralds?”
I shudder. “I don’t even want to think about them. Look at all the trouble they’ve caused.”
“No, Andie. The emeralds haven’t caused any trouble at all. It’s Doña Rosario’s greed that’s made all the trouble.”
“Oh, you’re right.” I sigh. “But it’s trouble all the same. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’ve been at your side every step of the way. Remember?”
I glance up. The tenderness in his expression blows me away. Can it be real? Really real? Oh, Lord Jesus. Don’t let me get carried away on the wings of emotion. Help me see what you want me to see.
“You have. And I’m glad.”
He arches a brow. “So I’m not a babysitter anymore?”
I wink. “I didn’t say that. You’re still a babysitter, but I’m not fighting you anymore.”
“I need that in writing, Ms. Adams.”
I give him a mischievous grin. “No paper here.”
“I’m still holding you to it.”
You’re holding me, period. I don’t let this thought explode into words, even though it tries. Real hard.
Then he turns serious on me again. “What about the emeralds? Did you ditch them along the way?”
“Are you kidding? You think I’d dump the cause of all this?” I wave toward the pigs. They oink away. “After all we’ve gone through? And all we might still go through? No way am I leaving them behind.”
“You still have them? You lost everything you had with you. How can you still have them? Where can you possibly have them?”
For about half a second I consider telling him. But then I think twice. “You’re going to have to trust me on this. I do still have them. I just hid them. Did a great job too.”
A frown lines his forehead. “Why won’t you tell me?”
Can I make him understand my concern? “I don’t want anyone else to have the information if they’re asked. I don’t even want you to have to lie if it comes to that. I’ve got them, they’re safe, and I’ll get them to Miss Mona.” I stretch my neck to look over the wall of the truck bed. “As soon as we’re out of Colombia.”
&nbs
p; He gives me a gentle shake. “I’m going to have to teach you about partnership, woman. It seems that lesson’s escaped your much-touted education.”
I go to disagree, but then have to back off. I can’t argue his point. My track record’s not so hot when it comes to trust, and trust is the bottom line for any partnership.
Ohmyohmyohmy. Max wants to teach me about partnerships.
Gulp.
Then, as I’m busy gulping, I realize I really do want a partnership with Max. And while the thought of getting hurt still makes me want to barf, a little kernel of excitement at the prospect—of partnership, not barfing—seems to be making itself at home in my heart.
As I contemplate the prospect of a real partnership with Max, I notice new sounds over the rattle and rumble of the truck. I stretch again, and realize we’re making our way down a city street, buildings on either side, the sounds of normalcy—normal to city-girl moi—rising and falling in a welcome tide. The pigs’ grunts don’t even bother me now.
“Woo-hoo!” I pump a fist. “We’re here.”
I notice the sudden flash of disappointment in Max’s face, and my heart does that hitching thing it’s begun to do when he comes close, maybe too close.
Okay. So I might have wanted our conversation to continue down the path it had started, but come on. What girl wants to talk sweet nothings in the presence of pigs?
Not this one.
I want candlelight, roses, and yeah, I even want “Stranger in Paradise” playing in the background.
“Take my hand . . . I’m a stranger in paradise—”
“Shh!” I hiss. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no”—I shake my head—“not here.”
He chuckles. “Okay, Andi-ana Jones. Not here.”
But somewhere else hangs over us in the pig-stinky air.
What a promise.
What a guy.
What a way to fall in love.
The “market” turns out to be a distribution center–type warehouse, where trucks drop off their products for the center to send them on to processing plants. Fortunately for us, it’s not too far from the Hotel de la Opera.