Dance With Snakes

by Horatio Castellanos Moya

  Rita tells him the driver’s story, that the murder of the DICA agents and the Ferracutis are connected.

  “Could be,” Matías says. “The way things are going now, we can’t rule anything out.”

  He gets up and paces around the office. He goes back to his chair, takes a sip of coffee, looks at his computer screen, edits a paragraph, and suddenly turns back to Rita.

  “Have you figured out the connection between the Bustillos and the DICA agents?”

  She says her source has only confirmed that Jacinto Bustillo is the man in the yellow Chevrolet, but he refused to tell her why he attacked the narcotics agents.

  “What’s your angle?”

  She’d like to wait until the early afternoon to discuss any angles, after the meeting at the Presidential Palace. For now, she can think of two possibilities: the first is a lunatic getting revenge on his wife and causing chaos all over the city while he’s at it; the second, that the crimes were planned by a drug cartel to stop the investigation that threatened to expose their local financial advisors.

  “But only Mrs. Bustillo was stabbed to death,” Matías says. “That’s important. It’s the only crime. The snakes can’t be tried for anything.”

  Rita feels an urgent need to pee again.

  “You need to be here by two,” he tells her, “so we can have one last meeting. I want this article by seven at the latest. Understood?”

  It’s always the same story. Early in the morning, you can’t even smell Matías’s breath, but late at night, by the time the office closes, his mouth is like a sewer.

  She’s about to leave when he says, “and don’t forget the third possibility – an attempt to destabilize the government. The party moderates all agreed on Ferracuti.”

  The same stubborn theory as Roger’s. Shit!

  It’s possible that Deputy Commissioner Handal and Chele Pedro are at odds on this case, she thinks while she runs to the washroom. But it’s going to be hard to find sources willing to talk about Ferracuti. Upper-class people tend to run from reporters in these kinds of situations.

  She goes back to her desk. She looks through her agenda. She wasn’t able to get an interview with Mrs. Bustillo’s daughter yesterday – a profile of her father would have been a major journalistic coup, even though the case is beginning to look political. She also needs to track down someone from Agent Raúl Pineda’s family. They must have killed him at home for a reason.

  She picks up the phone.

  She asks to speak to Detective Villalta.

  “It’s his sister Mirna,” she says.

  He comes on the line.

  “I need a big favour,” she says. “I’m trying to find a relative of Agent Pineda’s.”

  He suggests she call the DICA.

  But those guys are a bunch of arrogant thugs, that’s why she prefers dealing with Deputy Commissioner Handal and his people. He isn’t so bad really, and sometimes he even gives her a few leads.

  So Villalta says he’s going to tell her something that would have been an absolute gift last night, but the way things are turning out, is probably less significant now than it had seemed: Pineda’s wife, who was killed a few years ago, was Jacinto Bustillo’s mistress.

  He hangs up.

  She stands, dazed, the receiver stuck to her ear. She runs to Matías’s office.

  “So where do the deaths of the Ferracutis fit in?” he mumbles, shocked by the news.

  “There’s got to be an explanation, a link somewhere,” she says.

  Yeah, that it’s got nothing to do with drug trafficking or Ferracuti’s possible candidacy, she thinks to herself. She says nothing because, like Roger, her boss is overly obsessed with politics. She tends to look for the human side of the story.

  El Zompopo, Jonás and Arturo burst in.

  “I got inside,” El Zompopo says, grinning.

  “It was gruesome,” Jonás murmurs.

  “And the pictures?”

  The only one they wouldn’t let him take was of the naked girl, El Zompopo explains, and brags that Epaminondas, from El Gráfico, didn’t even see him go in through the kitchen door.

  Matías tells El Zompopo and Jonás to go find Conejo Arango, the government party President, and some opposition party leaders to get their reactions to Ferracuti’s death. Arturo will go to police headquarters and report any strange goings-on.

  Jonás strokes his moustache and turns to look at El Zompopo as if he isn’t too sure about his new assignment, but Matías tells them to hurry up, what are they waiting for.

  “Get down to the Presidential Palace right now,” he tells her when the others have left the office, a cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth. “It looks like they pushed up the meeting. And stay alert – the snakes could attack again.”

  Rita goes to her desk, puts on the navy blue jacket she always keeps on the back of her chair, and hurries to the parking lot. She’ll find something out, even if it’s just confirmation that the emergency cabinet meeting really is taking place and a list of who’s there.

  Víctor is waiting for her in the Volkswagen.

  It’s beginning to get warmer. She can feel a kind of tension in the air. There are fearful faces on street corners and at bus stops, as if people are expecting an old yellow car loaded with snakes to pull up any minute.

  “All the big bosses are going to meet, right?” says Víctor, as though what goes on at the Presidential Palace were public knowledge.

  “Who told you?” Rita asks.

  “Everyone knows, Miss. I’ve got a buddy who works there. He says he wouldn’t be surprised if they call a state of emergency. The president is really worried.”

  They arrive at the front gate.

  The guard asks with whom she has an appointment.

  She explains that she’s here to ask Ms. Cuevas, the Assistant Press Secretary, some questions and shows him her press pass.

  And then, when the guard opens the metal gate and Víctor begins to inch the Volkswagen forward, she spots a flash of yellow out of the corner of her eye. She turns around and sees an old American car drive by the Presidential Palace gates.

  She screams so loudly, so hysterically, that Víctor nearly loses control of the Volkswagen.

  “Miss, what’s going on?” he manages to ask.

  Her face is contorted with fear.

  “The snakes!” she shouts. “They’re coming!”

  She runs out of the car.

  “The Chevrolet with the snakes is out there!” she yells as she runs towards the building, growing more and more panicked.

  A couple of security guards manage to stop her.

  Alarmed employees come closer. Most of them know she’s a reporter from Ocho Columnas.

  They tell her to calm down, but Rita points to the front gate, still trembling.

  “The car with the snakes just drove by! I saw it when we were coming inside! It’s gone now but it’s going to come back to attack us right here!”

  Víctor, Ms. Cuevas, and the Chief of Security, Colonel Martínez, run over.

  “I didn’t see anything,” Víctor says.

  “Are you sure?” Colonel Martínez asks her, visibly alarmed.

  “I’m covering the story for the newspaper,” she says vehemently. “It was an old American car! What more do you want? Do something! The snakes will be here any minute!”

  A heavy silence falls on the employees; terror begins to spread on their faces.

  Colonel Martínez grabs his radio and shouts, “We’ve got a twenty-seven-five! Red alert! Lock all the doors and windows!”

  Panic spreads. Everyone is talking at once, hoping the snakes won’t make it inside. The worst thing right now would be an attack on the President. They ask God to protect them. Colonel Martínez orders them to stay calm, to go back to their work stations, and not to make any outside calls while they set up the defence mechanisms.

  Ms. Cuevas takes Rita by the arm and walks her to her office.

  “I never would have
thought this could happen,” the elegant and well-mannered civil servant murmurs.

  Rita continues to tremble.

  The Assistant Press Secretary offers her a glass of water and tells her to stay calm; nothing can happen to her here, security is airtight. Those reptiles will be burned to a crisp if they even try to get close.

  She needs to call the office and speak to her boss, Rita stammers, a little calmer now. She tries to turn on her walkie-talkie, but all the frequencies have been jammed because of the red alert. She’s in the Presidential Palace, the safest place in the country, Ms. Cuevas tells her. It’s better if she doesn’t try to use the telephone until this has all passed.

  Colonel Martínez comes in looking for Rita.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  They climb the stairs to the President’s office.

  And there they are, anxiously sitting around a rectangular table, their faces pale, as if the country were going through its worst disaster: the President, the Ministers of Defence and National Security, the Police Commissioner and the Chief of Intelligence.

  “She’s the witness, Mr. President,” Colonel Martínez says.

  The fat man’s jowls are quivering, his tie undone and his sleeves rolled up.

  “You saw him?” he wheezes.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” she mumbles. “I thought he was going to come up behind us while the gate was open like he did at Dr. Ferracuti’s house, but he drove by, thank God.”

  The reference to Ferracuti impresses them.

  General Morado, the Minister of Defence, says the helicopter is on its way to evacuate them from the area.

  But the Presidential Palace is an old colonial mansion. The helicopter pad is on the lawn. The snakes could attack them while they’re getting ready to climb aboard, warns Colonel Martínez.

  They should set up a perimeter, suggests the sour-faced cripple Rita hates so much.

  “Minister, do you think we can stop them with guns?” asks Colonel Martínez.

  He said it without a trace of sarcasm, trying to think straight in his bewildered state.

  General Morado says he needs a commando unit armed with flamethrowers – it’s the only way to make sure the snakes are neutralized.

  Colonel Martínez runs out, shouting the evacuation orders into his walkie-talkie.

  Suddenly alone among the men who decide the country’s fate, Rita realizes that she’s right in the middle of the story, a privileged participant in the worst crisis the country has faced in years, the only witness. It’s an experience that will raise her above her peers, provided the snakes don’t kill her first.

  The Police Commissioner informs them that his units are scouring the area and haven’t yet found the yellow Chevrolet.

  They can hear the helicopter approaching.

  The snakes might be in the garden next to the helicopter pad, waiting for them, and they’ll all go out only to get bitten, stammers the Chief of Intelligence, a chubby publicist who, according to Matías, got the job only because he manages the brothels owned by members of the top military brass.

  Colonel Martínez bursts in to say the staff is hysterical. He asks for instructions.

  Everyone is standing now, leaning out the window, watching the helicopter land.

  General Morado tells Martínez to take the employees down to the basement where they’ll be safe until the commando unit arrives to search the gardens.

  “Mr. President, does this mean there really is a conspiracy to destabilize the government?” Rita asks before they take her downstairs with the employees.

  “Miss,” he says, rolling down his sleeves, “we’re not about to make any statements to the press.”

  He makes a gesture to have her removed.

  But when Colonel Martínez takes her by the arm to go down the stairs, they hear a burst of machine gun fire coming from the entrance of the building.

  Dozens of employees race up the stairs. Several guards come up behind them walking backwards, their weapons pointed at the terrace.

  “The snakes!” screams a panicked elderly secretary who’s standing in front of the presidential office.

  “What’s happening?” asks Colonel Martínez.

  “The troops are getting nervous, Colonel!” an official shouts from the ground floor. “A guard thought he saw a snake at the front gate and fired.”

  The Colonel lets go of Rita and goes down the stairs with his pistol drawn.

  Ms. Cuevas asks her if the President is still in his office with the ministers. She says yes, they’re waiting for a commando unit to escort them out.

  “Oh God, I hope they haven’t got in,” says Víctor, who ran upstairs with the employees in all the confusion.

  “Everyone go down to the basement!” the Colonel orders from the bottom of the staircase. “You’ll be safe there while they search the gardens and evacuate the President!”

  The staff members look at one another, fearful and indecisive.

  “None of the snakes has got in! It was a false alarm!” shouts the colonel, trying to calm them down.

  The office door opens, the Commissioner comes out and hurries down the stairs. Rita runs after him as if she’s suddenly forgotten about the snakes.

  “Who’s responsible for this attack?”

  But the President’s entourage is following right behind them.

  She moves to the side.

  A Special Forces unit has split into two lines on the lawn for the President and his men to hurry between.

  The helicopter’s engine is on.

  As soon as the cabinet ministers are aboard, it takes off.

  Colonel Martínez leaves the lawn and orders the commando unit to comb the gardens.

  Rita leans on the doorjamb. Surely the reptiles are coiled on some nearby garden path, but will they attack now that the president has left the building and a military commando unit armed with flamethrowers has taken up the search?

  The employees have cautiously returned to the ground floor. Few of them go back to work, most are standing around the windows and the front entrance, curious and whispering, waiting for the slightest sign that they should run down to the basement.

  Rita again tries to turn on her walkie-talkie, but the frequency is still jammed.

  Víctor asks her what they should do now.

  “Let’s wait here a little while,” she says, biting her nails.

  Ms. Cuevas walks up beside her.

  “Do you think they’ll call a state of emergency?” Rita asks.

  She doesn’t know, this kind of situation is unheardof; there are a ton of different accounts of what’s happened and the president is extremely nervous. This crisis could paralyze the whole country.

  The Special Forces unit has combed through even the most secluded parts of the gardens, and hasn’t found any trace of the snakes. A calm begins to spread inside the building.

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” Rita says, but she still doesn’t feel brave enough to cross the lawn and head for the parking lot, even though the entire area is teeming with men in uniform armed with high-powered weapons.

  She wonders why the Chevrolet didn’t take the opportunity to follow her into the Presidential Palace. What stopped it? Maybe it was just a reconnaissance mission. She’s in Ms. Cuevas’s office now, drinking a Coke, thinking she won’t write an article, but rather a first-person account of the events, a testimonial that’ll make her colleagues drool with envy. A piece that will expose the effects of the snake attacks on the country’s political leadership. Assistant Press Secretary Cuevas tells her to be cautious, moderate, and not to put the President in an awkward position. He’s having enough trouble dealing with this crisis and doesn’t deserve to have his image further damaged. Matías will disagree completely: he’ll push her to write an article exposing the panic and chaos that’s spreading so rapidly among the political leadership that the President doesn’t even feel safe in the Presidential Palace.

  She turns on the walkie-talkie. Th
e frequency is clear. She tells Matías about spotting the yellow Chevrolet, about the chaos in the building, the cancellation of the emergency cabinet meeting, and the evacuation of the President and his ministers by helicopter.

  “Do you know where they went?’ Matías asks.

  No idea. Maybe to Police Headquarters or the National Defence Building, she speculates.

  He tells her to try and find out the President’s whereabouts and get back to the office.

  She leaves the Assistant Press Secretary’s office and looks for Colonel Martínez. She finds him on the lawn, talking with two Special Forces lieutenants. The colonel claims not to know where the helicopter went.

  Rita calls Víctor and tells him to bring the Volkswagen around. The search has been called off and they’re authorized to leave the premises. They drive through the front gates at ten after eleven. There are groups of reporters outside waiting, proof that word of a possible snake attack at the Presidential Palace has filtered out to the city’s news outlets. She waves to them without stopping. The heat outside is oppressive and sticky, as if there’s an afternoon storm brewing. They drive in silence, exhausted by the morning’s bizarre events, falling into the relaxed state that follows extreme stress.

  “It’s too bad there weren’t any photographers there,” she murmurs when they get to the office.

  Her colleagues question her as she walks by, hungry for details, but before she can tell them anything, she has to report to Matías. She hangs her jacket over the back of her chair, takes a quick trip to the washroom, and goes into the boss’s office.

  Arturo sent the good news from Police Headquarters. They found the old, yellow, American car that drove past the Presidential Palace, but it was a Ford, not a Chevrolet, and the driver was a respectable engineer as terrified of snakes and reptiles as anyone else.

  Rita falls back on a chair.

  “It can’t be,” she says.

  Matías’s breath has gotten considerably worse, as if he’s spent the last hour shoving coffee and cigarettes in his mouth.

  “At least you created a story for yourself,” he says. “Not all reporters can do that.”

  She lets out a nervous giggle and bites her nails. What will her colleagues think of her? What will the officials at the Presidential Palace say when they find out?