The Mongolian Conspiracy

by Bernal, Rafael

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Filiberto.”

  “Is he a regular customer, Marta?”

  “No. First time I’ve seen him.”

  García went over to the front door and looked out. The Pole was entering the restaurant across the street. García turned to Mr. Liu:

  “Want to have dinner with me? Tonight I feel like eating chink food.”

  “Ah, Mr. García. Very honored, very honored to eat with so honorable man.”

  “Let’s go. See you later, Marta.”

  The Pole was sitting in the restaurant, at a table next to the window. García and Liu sat down nearby. After staring at the menu that was in Chinese and Spanish, the Pole pointed to a plate. The waiter asked him:

  “With mushrooms?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Mushrooms.”

  “You want bowl of soup, Mr. García?” Liu asked.

  “You decide, Liu. You’re the expert.”

  García’s green eyes were glued on the Pole, who was gazing absentmindedly out the window.

  “Many tourists around here, Liu?”

  “No. This place only for Chinamen . . . and some Mexican. Almost never see foreigner, almost never.”

  Silence. The good thing about these Chinamen is that you don’t have to talk when you’re with them. They seem perfectly happy when they’re quiet. García and Liu ate bird’s-nest soup and ribs with soy sauce. The Pole finished his dish, paid, and left.

  “Seems he doesn’t like Chinese food.”

  Liu laughed.

  “I think honorable foreigner not used to poor Chinaman food.”

  “Have there been other foreigners around here in the last few days?”

  “Why you ask?”

  “Just curious. So many tourists visit Mexico . . .”

  “When tourists want eat Chinese food they go Casa Han on Avenida Juárez. Only poor people eat here . . . only we —”

  “It’s perfectly good food.”

  “Very honored, poor Chinese food very honored.”

  García didn’t respond. Fucking Chinamen! But that Marta sure is fine. And the Pole looks he’s new to Dolores Street, like he doesn’t know about anything Chinese. But those three from the Outer Mongolia rumor, they’re coming from China and must know a thing or two. Fucking Outer Mongolia!

  The restaurant had emptied out. García leaned over the table to speak to Liu in a low voice:

  “You guys from Communist China or the other one?”

  “I from Canton.”

  “Don’t act dumb with me, Liu. Is your president Mao Tse Tung or the other guy?”

  “General Chiang Kai-Shek.”

  García forced a little laugh.

  “There’s nobody can understand you Chinamen.”

  “Ah! Chinese language very difficult, very difficult. Many character, Mr. García . . . Very difficult.”

  “Any of your compatriots around here belong to Mao Tse Tung’s party?”

  “Chinese very peaceful people, very peaceful. Very happy live in Mexico.”

  “What if Mao wins?”

  “Chinese very happy here, very peaceful . . .”

  Fucking Chinamen! Can’t ever get anything concrete out of them. Or out of that fucking colonel or out of that fucking Mr. Rosendo del Valle, neither. Marta must have been surprised when I said goodbye so abruptly. But maybe it’s for the best. Got to play it tough with women, can’t let them get too sure of themselves. Fucking Pole! Why the hell is he following me around? How would he know I’m investigating this crazy shit about Outer Mongolia? I already smell a rat, and I don’t understand much about these international affairs. But they still went and hired me. I definitely smell a rat. Fucking colonel!

  Liu sat deep in thought. Suddenly, he smiled:

  “You go to house of honorable Mr. Yuan?”

  “Just for a while. Gotta work tomorrow.”

  “Very dangerous for Mr. García play poker, very dangerous.”

  Liu laughed guilelessly.

  “The last few games have cost me a bundle, Liu.”

  “Game between friend, between friend.”

  “Yeah, between friends.”

  “I no go tonight . . . many work . . .”

  García asked for the check, but Liu had already signaled the waiter that he would pay. García wanted to protest. Liu placed his hand on his arm.

  “We Chinamen, we like you, Mr. García. You just like us — you no hear, no see, no talk. Three virtue every Chinese child learn . . . three very good virtue.”

  They left the restaurant and crossed the street. Liu said goodbye at the door to his shop.

  The game at Pedro Yuan’s house was lackluster. Just him, Santiago, and Chen Po. García didn’t want to buy any chips. The sweetish smell of opium wafted down from the room upstairs. García opened a window and called Yuan over. The others stayed at the table holding their useless cards in their hands.

  “I need a little information, Yuan, my friend.”

  “Very honored.”

  “This is serious, Yuan. I think I’ve proved that I’m your friend and I never stick my nose into what’s none of my business . . .”

  Yuan nodded. His face began to show signs of concern.

  “There’s a rumor making the rounds that I need to clear up before the police get involved and start finding out other things they’ve got no business knowing.”

  “Always bad rumor everywhere.”

  “That’s why it’s best if I’m the one looking into this, Yuan, to see if there’s anything to this rumor.”

  “You our friend.”

  “There’s word out about there being some Communist Chinese agents among you. Know anything about that?”

  Yuan sat for a moment in silence. His small dark eyes were full of sadness. When he spoke, his voice was so low García had to lean over to hear.

  “We exile in strange land. Our honorable father and grandfather buried in Canton, where they suffer much in their life. Always one warlord and then another warlord, very bad thing. And then the white devil . . . And always hunger, Mr. García, always hunger. We all like animal, not like men who laugh and sing song. You no know about these terrible thing, very bad . . . And always one general and then another general; one party and another party, but for us always same, always very terrible. And now you say about rumor that these terrible thing follow us here.”

  “Any Communist agents around here?”

  “Nobody know what deep in heart of man, Mr. García.”

  “True.”

  Pedro Yuan was trying to control himself, but fear was spreading across his face.

  “What you do if you find Communist agent among us? Agent of Mr. Mao?”

  “Is there one?”

  “I know nothing, Mr. García. I not political. What they do to us?”

  The Chinaman’s voice was trembling with fear. Fucking Chinaman! He’s more scared than a rabbit in a foxhole. If he’s their agent, those Communists are really up shit creek.

  “They won’t do anything to you, Yuan.”

  “You think?”

  “But you have to tell me the truth. Mexico has welcomed you, and here you have found the peace you were looking for.”

  “Very true, very true.”

  “That’s why you have to give a little, too. Mexico doesn’t want any rebellions, or any trouble like that here. And I don’t think you people do, either.”

  “No, we no want . . . We want peace, Mr. García, much peace.”

  “So, have you got anything to tell me?”

  At the table, Santiago was shuffling the cards absentmindedly. Chen Po was staring silently into space, but García was sure they were both paying close attention, trying to hear their words and watch their movements in case they revealed what they were talking about. Yuan moved closer to García:

  “There’s a restaurant on Donceles Street, a place called Café Canton,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “And?”

  “I know nothing, nothing for sure . . . only rumo
r, always

  rumor . . .”

  “What rumors?”

  “People arrived . . . Chinese people, and from a different country . . .”

  “From Hong Kong?”

  “No know, but some hear rumor and say much money there . . . and before no money there.”

  “Thank you, Yuan.”

  “What they going to do to us?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You want drink?”

  “No, thank you. Good night to all of you.”

  There was deep, thousand-year-old anguish in the eyes of the Chinamen as they watched him leave. I should have told them not to worry, not to be afraid. They aren’t going to sleep tonight. To hell with them — fucking Chinamen! And their “very terrible” things. What terrible things could they have seen that I haven’t seen? What I’d like to see are Marta’s legs. I should buy her a pretty dress. Broads always like that. Fucking broads! All that chasing after them for a little bit of a good time, and then they get boring as hell. Fucking Marta! Always wearing that same dress. I should take her to the Alameda Cinema and then to eat some tacos, just so we can get to know each other a little. But I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal. Maybe it would be better if I arranged things through Liu. They don’t care. Plus, they’re scared and they like money. And that fucking Pole. Maybe I should tail him, but I don’t want to spook him. Better to make him think he’s the one tailing me. That way, we’ll be running into each other real soon. Fucking Pole!

  A woman’s voice called out to him from a darkened doorway.

  “Filiberto, Mr. Filiberto . . .”

  García stopped in the shadows, away from the light of the street lamp. Instinctively, he placed his hand on the butt of his gun. Marta walked into the cone of light. She was wearing a small woolen shawl over her head. García walked toward her:

  “Marta.”

  Not a single twitch of his face betrayed the least surprise, if he felt any. Marta walked up to him and began to cry. She made no sound, but under her shawl her shoulders were shaking with sobs. García placed his hand on her arm:

  “Marta, what’s the matter?”

  “I wanted . . . I wanted to talk to you. Please . . . I have to talk to you . . .”

  “Whenever you want, Marta. I always want to talk to you, but you act like you never even notice me . . .”

  “Please, Filiberto, this is serious.”

  “We shouldn’t talk here, Marta. People know you, and me, too. What do you say we go to . . . to my . . . ?”

  “Wherever you want, but please . . .”

  As she said this, she touched his hand that was on her arm. Her hand was freezing.

  “Marta, you’re cold. Let’s go somewhere you can get something hot to drink. Come on, we’ll take a cab . . .”

  They stopped a taxi on the corner. Marta got in first. García paused for a moment, as if he was having a problem with the door. About thirty feet ahead, a car that was parked sped off. Could be a coincidence, but that car sure looked like it was waiting for me. Fucking Pole!

  “Donceles Street,” he told the driver, “Café Canton.”

  Marta didn’t say anything. She tried to wrap the shawl completely around herself, as if she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. García took her hand very gently, so as not to scare her. She didn’t pull it away.

  “Calm down, Marta.”

  The girl had stopped crying, but her hand was cold and clammy.

  “I have to talk to you . . .”

  “Soon, Marta.”

  García had sat down very close to the girl. He felt her young, firm body and her leg trembling against his. He should put his arm around her, but maybe not, not yet. With these gals, if you take it slow, everything works out fine. They’re like wild mares, you’ve got to tame them little by little, with soft words and soothing caresses, always acting like you could take them or leave them. Fucking wild mares! And then there’s that car. I think it’s a Ford, it was following us with its lights low. But now I don’t see it. For all I know it was just a coincidence. Fucking coincidences! I smell a rat, and now I’m starting to see its tail. And this Marta, who’s so fine, for all I know she’s part of that stinking rat. There’s already too many coincidences. For all I know she told them: “I’ll get the old man where you want him, so you can give him a goodbye party. He’s sweet on me, I can lead him wherever you want him.” For all I know, all the way to Outer Mongolia. Fucking Outer Mongolia! That’s what that bitch did to General Marchena. It’s true he was asking for it, up to his elbows in shit. And me there at his beck and call: clean my shoes; brush my uniform; bring me a bitch; go the fuck to hell; and I brought him the bitch and the bitch put him right where they wanted him. Fucking bitch! For all I know they’re doing the same to me. But Marta’s much hotter than that bitch.

  “This is it, sir.”

  “Come on, Marta.”

  Before going in, he checked the street. The Ford wasn’t there. They went in and sat down at a booth.

  “Have a cup of tea, Marta. It’ll do you good.”

  “Thank you, Filiberto.”

  García had sat down across from the girl, facing the door, as always. I should’ve sat next to her. I’m turning into a chump, a real chump. Right here in this corner I should make a move, but pretend I’m just comforting her, of course.

  It was eleven at night, and the place was still pretty full. He ordered a tea for her and a beer for himself. The waitress gave him a dirty look. A man appeared at the door and sat down at a table near the window and facing the street. He also looks like a foreigner, kind of like a gringo. Or by now I’m just imagining things. They must’ve slipped me something — I’m seeing foreigners crawling out of the woodwork!

  “Cheers, Marta.”

  Marta smiled over the lip of her tea cup. She still had tears in her eyes. García pulled his black silk handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, leaned over the table, and dried her tears.

  “You shouldn’t be crying, not with such pretty eyes, my lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marta took the handkerchief and finished wiping away her tears herself. Then she blew her nose, her little Chinese nose running like a leaky faucet. But now there are two guys at that table. I didn’t see the second one come in. I think he didn’t, I think he was already here. Fucking tears! But this way they’ll think, when they make their move, that I haven’t seen anything. They’re definitely watching me. Is it because of Marta, or something else?

  “Have some more tea, Marta. It’ll do you good.”

  He held her hand that was on the table. She didn’t pull it away. She has some mighty soft skin, just like the peaches back home. And those two guys are making a big effort not to look at me, but they aren’t missing a thing.

  “Mr. Filiberto . . .”

  “Just plain Filiberto, Marta.”

  “I know that you . . . that you’re with the police . . . That’s what they say at the shop . . . No, please, don’t say anything. They also say that you’re not scared of anything and . . . that you’ve killed many men.”

  “Is that what they say, Marta?”

  “But I know you’re a good man, Filiberto. If you’ve killed people, it’s because . . . because you had to, because you’re with the police and some people are very bad . . .”

  “Why are you saying these things, Marta?”

  García’s eyes had turned hard. He pulled away his hand. Could it be that Marta wants me to kill someone? Hey, I’ve done it for worse reasons.

  “I know you’re a good man,” the girl repeated, “and that’s why I know you aren’t going to hurt me.”

  “Why would I hurt you, Marta?”

  “Because . . . because you’re with the police and you probably already know . . .”

  “What do I know, Marta?”

  “About me. That’s why you’ve been coming to the shop and talking to me. I knew it wasn’t because of me. A man like you isn’t going to be interested in a girl like me, Filiberto.”


  Now she put her hand on top of his. Son of a bitch, things are getting complicated — what’s up with this broad? Could she have something to do with this Outer Mongolia business? But then, they wouldn’t have let her go out with me. No, she’s got something else up her sleeve. And she’s ripe for plucking, even starting to give me some wiggle room. Good thing I didn’t go through Liu.

  “When you started coming to the shop, I thought of leaving, running away, but I didn’t have anyplace to go. Then you started talking to me and you said things that made me laugh, good things, and then I thought, you couldn’t be bad like they say. Because I’ve known people who are bad, really bad, back there . . .”

  “Back there?”

  “Yes, when I was very little. I lied to you, Filiberto, when I told you I was twenty. I’m twenty-five . . .”

  “You don’t look it, Marta . . .”

  “I’ve always looked younger than I am. And then they killed my father. I almost don’t remember him at all. The Japanese killed him in a bombing raid. And my two brothers went off with an army, in one of those wars they always have there. And my mother died of hunger and some nuns in Canton took me in. My mother was Peruvian, Mr. García. And there was a girl in the convent who died, her mother was Mexican, born in Mexico. Her father was Chinese and had brought her there with him and nobody knew who he was. And the poor thing died of the starvation she’d suffered.”

  “When did that happen, Marta?”

  “About ten years ago. And then the nuns had to leave Canton and they went to Macao and they took me with them and they gave me the Mexican girl’s passport . . . that’s the truth, Mr. Filiberto. I know it’s wrong . . . but it’s the only bad thing I’ve ever done in my life and there were so many refugees in Macao and in Hong Kong . . . and so much starvation and so much fear . . .”

  She started crying again and covered her face with the black silk handkerchief. Those two guys are still sitting there, like they’re nailed to the spot. And Marta is in Mexico illegally. How about: if you don’t come home with me, Marta, I’m going to have to arrest you? That would be one way to get things started.

  Marta pulled the handkerchief away from her face: