The Mongolian Conspiracy

by Bernal, Rafael

  “I see.”

  “Obviously, I don’t use my real name on stage and in cabarets. My stage name is Anabella Crawford. Maybe you’ve seen me advertised in Tijuana or maybe L.A.”

  García handed her back her passport. Fucking gringa! Her mouth stinks like a cantina at daybreak. Big deal, an American citizen, like that’d be enough to scare me off.

  “Look here, mister . . . I’m telling you, that money’s mine . . .”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Come on, honey. Be good . . . Be good with me and I’ll be good with you? Want to come to a party tonight, just you by your lonesome? . . . I’ve always liked strong dark men with green eyes. I’ll be good, honey.”

  The professor poured himself another glass of rum and drank it down in one gulp. Anabella sidled up to García, letting her robe open at her neckline. Under her robe, there was only Anabella, lots of Anabella.

  “I haven’t done no deal with this shyster . . . with this lawyer. He wanted some of my money, honey.”

  “Really?”

  “He wanted thirty percent of my money. Five hundred dollars. Jesus F. Christ! Ain’t it true I don’t got to give him nothing? You’re going to get it for me, aren’t you?”

  “If you can prove where that money came from, there’s no reason you have to give anything to anybody.”

  “What?”

  García repeated the sentence, this time in English. The woman kept talking, also in English:

  “He earned it, every penny of it. We both earned it . . .”

  “What kind of work did he do?”

  “He was hired, for a special job, an investigation. He was a private detective, honey.”

  “Who hired him?”

  “That car’s mine too, the Pontiac. I gave him the money to buy it in Tijuana.”

  “Who hired him?”

  “You gotta give me that money, and the car, too. It’s all mine . . .”

  “Who hired him?”

  The woman went over to the table, picked up the bottle of rum, and took a huge slug.

  “Honey, you don’t need to know that. Come back tonight and you’ll see that none of that matters . . . We’ll have a party . . .”

  García went straight up to her. His eyes were two chunks of green ice. With his left hand he yanked the bottle away from her and with the left he gave her a sharp slap.

  “Who hired him?”

  The woman brought her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were spinning. She slowly sank into an armchair, still not removing her hands from her mouth. The tears welled up in her eyes, then rolled down her cheeks, mixing with mascara and powder.

  “Who hired him?”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t tell you. I can’t. But that money’s mine, it’s all I’ve got . . . I’ve got nothing else. That bastard took everything from me. In Tijuana he said . . . I was a performer there . . . He said we were going to make a bundle . . .”

  “Who with?”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t tell you . . . I’m afraid.”

  García grabbed her robe and pulled her up to standing. Anabella’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head. Her full lips were trembling.

  “They were Chinamen who hired him, weren’t they?”

  The woman shook her head, weakly.

  “Wang, from Café Canton, right?”

  The woman kept shaking her head. García let go of her robe and pushed her into the chair. Anabella covered her face with her hands and began sobbing.

  “We can have a party, honey . . . A really good party. Tonight.”

  “Was it Wang?”

  Anabella nodded.

  “What was the job?”

  “I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . . Something very secret, very mysterious. They didn’t want to tell me anything . . . Rock, that’s how I called Roque, he promised me we were going to have lots of money and be very important . . . But I don’t know what the job was.”

  García turned, as if to leave.

  “But, Mr. Policeman . . . Mister . . . you promised you’d get me that money . . . And the car . . .”

  “Talk to your lawyer.”

  “That crummy bastard! Best you come back tonight, at nine, I’ll explain everything to you. I’ll spiff myself up and we’ll have a party. You want a party with an American girl, eh, lover boy?”

  García left, closing the door behind him. Fucking washed-up gringa! Still reeking of the rotgut she drank last night. I’d almost rather sleep with the professor. So Wang was going around dealing out the dough, eh? Those fucking Chinamen. Now they’re really in for it. And the guys from Communist China trying to play catch-up in this international intrigue. Just look at how they’re fucking it up! That’s why I smell a goddamned rat here. Fucking rat! All that bullshit about Outer Mongolia, and this is all they can come up with. And out there are a bunch of fifty-dollar bills, greenbacks. I could buy Marta a fur coat. There I go, acting like a chump again. No. Tonight, she either gives out or she gets out. She’s too damn fine. Half a million for a fuck-up like this? More than six million pesos. Wait till the colonel hears. Then we’ll start the game of marbles — who’s got their marbles? And who’s lost theirs. Whoever takes the first turn usually wins, and that’ll be me.

  IV

  When García opened the door to his apartment, Marta was on the floor on her knees, cleaning the rug with a damp rag. She looked up when she heard the door open:

  “The stain is almost gone, Filiberto.”

  “Why are you doing this, Marta?”

  Marta stood up slowly.

  “I thought you wouldn’t be back till late, and I didn’t have anything else to do.”

  “Have you eaten, Marta?”

  “I made a little rice.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m not hungry, Filiberto.”

  García closed the door, walked into the bedroom, and took off his hat. Marta kept looking down at the rug she’d been cleaning. When García returned, she lifted her eyes to look at him.

  “What happened?”

  “No big deal, Marta.”

  “But, those men . . .”

  “They were both criminals, wanted by the police.”

  He sat down on the sofa. Maybe she’ll come sit next to me and I’ll put my arm around her. I should have put my arms around her when I came in. I’m really turning into a faggot.

  Marta took the rag into the kitchen. From there she called out:

  “Do you want some coffee? I made some . . .”

  “Thanks, Marta, but you shouldn’t bother . . .”

  “I’ll bring it to you. Do you want some cognac?”

  “Yes . . . please.”

  “Coming.”

  Marta’s voice sounded happy, confident. She’s not afraid like she was last night. Maybe now she’ll play harder to get. She didn’t try to kiss me when I came in, didn’t even give me her hand. I made her not afraid of me and now she brushes me off. That’s what I get for being a dumbass — and a faggot. I’m a fucking faggot.

  Marta returned from the kitchen and placed the coffee and the cognac on the coffee table. Then she sat down next to him.

  “I put in sugar. One spoonful, the way you like it.”

  “Thank you, Marta.”

  He took a sip of the coffee. Just like I like it. What I like is her, but I sit here playing the chump.

  “Want some cognac?”

  “Thank you, Marta.”

  She poured some cognac into a glass. Thank you, Marta. Seems like that’s all I know how to say, like a schoolboy.

  “Cheers, Marta. Won’t you have a glass with me?”

  “No, thank you, Filiberto. Truth is, I don’t like cognac.”

  “What do you like to drink, Marta?”

  “Nothing. Sometimes a little wine, but I prefer not to drink anything. I also cleaned your suit . . . from last night, and washed your shirt.”

  “You shouldn’t have bothered, Marta.”

  “I thought it wouldn�
�t be a good idea to give it to the cleaners. Then people start talking. But you say there’s no danger . . .”

  “No, none at all, Marta. And now I’m going to go see a lawyer about getting your birth certificate. Marta Fong García’s. For all we know, I’m your uncle, Marta.”

  “At least poor Alicia Fong’s.”

  “That’s you now, forever. And more Mexican than chilaquiles. Here’s to you, my fellow Mexican.”

  Marta lowered her head. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. She gave him a kiss on the cheek:

  “Thank you, Filiberto, thank you so much.”

  “Don’t mention it, Marta.”

  Marta stood up and walked over to the open window. She spoke from there, her voice full of feeling:

  “So, I’m no longer in danger, I’ll never be in danger, and I’ll never again be afraid. You probably think I’m foolish, but I’ve lived with this fear for so many years that it’s going to take me a while to get used to not carrying it around all the time. I’m going to have to get used to facing life head on, looking people straight in the eye, not hiding, as I’ve always done.”

  “Nobody can do anything to you anymore, Marta.”

  “I’m free . . . I have to get used to this, to being free. I have to say it, over and over again. I won’t have to work for whatever they want to pay me. And I’m never going back to Mr. Liu’s house . . .”

  “I thought he was your guardian, Marta.”

  Marta didn’t answer. García stood up and went into the bedroom. Fucking faggot! I didn’t take advantage of her when she was afraid and now I’m not taking advantage of her when she’s grateful. Maybe that Russian’s got me all tied up in knots, because I know he’s watching everything. I should close the curtain. Fucking Russian! I should bring her in here, into bed, and go for it. Cut to the goddamned chase.

  He walked back to the door between the bedroom and the living room. Marta was standing up, looking at him.

  “All of this is thanks to you, Filiberto.”

  “It has been my pleasure.”

  “I knew you were good. A man that makes a girl like me, a nobody, laugh, like you do, has to be good.”

  “Don’t say that, Marta.”

  García went into the bathroom and closed the door. Now I’m really fucked. Even my voice is coming out all shaky and weak. Next I’ll start bawling like an old woman. Or like a faggot. Anyway, they say that men, when they get old, turn into faggots.

  He washed his hands and came out of the bathroom. Marta was still standing there, at the door.

  “I knew I wasn’t wrong to tell you all that, Filiberto. And that’s why I want to tell you the rest.”

  García’s eyes turned cold, calculating. Now the truth will come out. All she had to do was see my dumbass face, and she’s out of here. But if that’s where she’s heading, she’ll put out or she’ll put out, period, even if the Russian does see the whole thing. Fucking Russian! For all I know he’s listening, too. He probably put microphones everywhere. But the Russian can go fuck himself. She’s going to have to put out.

  “Come here, Filiberto . . . Sit down, on the sofa.”

  García sat down. She kneeled in front of him, on the floor, looking up at him from below. Her eyes were filled with tears.

  “I didn’t want to Filiberto, I swear, I didn’t, but I was Mr. Liu’s mistress. His second wife, he called me. I didn’t want to, but I was so afraid. And then I got used to it. I thought it was going to go on forever, for my whole life. He came to my room every Tuesday and Saturday night. His wife, the poor thing, she knew everything, but he says those things don’t matter, that’s the Chinese custom. And his wife is afraid of him, too. She and I, we’ve always done whatever he wanted. We never dared disobey him. He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with what he did, but I think there is . . . But I couldn’t do anything to stop him, and twice a week I had to wait for him in my room.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Marta?”

  “Because you’ve been so good to me . . . Like a father, like more than a father. Ever since I left the nuns in Macao, nobody has ever been kind to me. But you are, and you haven’t asked for anything in return . . .”

  She threw her arms around him and started to cry on his shoulder. Like a father. Fucking father! If she only knew what I’m going to ask her for. But that Chinaman Liu already beat me to it. Fucking Chinaman!

  Marta kept sobbing. He placed a hand on her head. My hand is trembling, like a schoolboy with his first bitch. Like it was trembling when I touched Gabriela in Yurécuaro. Or like that kid from the university I took that afternoon in Chapultepec. Or like those girl’s hands trembled when I pulled down her panties. Even more when I snuck out from behind that tree. And that little bitch was a pretty thing, but she was as much a virgin as her fucking mother. Crying her eyes out but squeezing me so hard I could barely breathe. Fucking little brat! And now I’m trembling like that kid. The minute Marta’s near me I start trembling. And she’s just a hole with legs and she’s not even pretending she’s got her virginity to lose. Now, right now, is when I should make my move and drag her into bed. They say that women get hornier when they’re crying. Fucking trembling hands!

  He pulled away from Marta and motioned for her to sit down on the couch next to him. He lifted her chin and dried her tears with his handkerchief.

  “Seems I’m always drying your tears, Marta.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t have much experience at this, Marta.”

  “Me, neither, Filiberto. I thought I didn’t know how to cry anymore.”

  She kissed him gently on his mouth, stood up, and went to the kitchen, taking the empty cup with her. García sat paralyzed, his eyes half closed, his lips pressed together so they wouldn’t tremble. She beat me to it. Here’s me with my mister-nice-guy routine, and she’s the one who takes the bull by the horns. And right next to the window, so those fucking Russians could see everything. Or maybe she was sending them some kind of signal? But, a signal for what?

  He stood up and went over to the window. He scanned the façade of the hotel across the street for the room they were spying from, but he couldn’t see anything.

  “Here’s some more coffee, Filiberto. Do you want more

  cognac?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve had enough.”

  “Sit and drink your coffee. You must be very tired . . .”

  “Marta, my dear . . . You shouldn’t do those things. Don’t think I’m so old I don’t feel . . .”

  Marta laughed.

  “I’d be very upset if you didn’t feel anything. I’ve just told you I’m not a child and . . . and ever since the first day you walked into the shop . . . Remember what you said to me? ‘Can I write you a letter, my lovely?’”

  “‘Only if you write it in Chinese, Mr. Filiberto.’”

  “You remember! You remember! From that day on I’ve been thinking about you . . . imagining, fantasizing . . .”

  “Fantasizing what, Marta?”

  “. . . and asking questions. And that’s when they told me that you were in the police and that . . . that you were famous for having killed a lot of people . . .”

  There was a long pause.

  “It’s true, Marta.”

  “Like those two men last night, criminals who wanted to kill you just because you were doing your job.”

  “Things aren’t that simple, Marta.”

  “Now I know I was right, that you are good and I love you and I am going to love you forever. I’m not asking you for anything, Filiberto, nothing at all. I know I don’t have the right to ask you for anything . . .”

  “You can ask me for anything you like, Marta.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to be afraid, to always be afraid. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid. And when you’re afraid, when everything is filled with fear, you can’t love. You are very brave and you don’t know what it’s like, but it’s horrible . . . To always be afraid and
alone . . .”

  “But, I do, Marta dear, I do know, we are all afraid sometimes and we are all alone.”

  “You’ve never been married?”

  “Who would ever marry a man like me, Marta? With my . . . profession?”

  “Many women. You don’t know how good you are, the good you do in the world. In these last few weeks, all I did was wait for you to come into Mr. Liu’s store and talk to me. And yesterday . . .

  yesterday I thought I couldn’t go on living like that, drowning in all that fear and loneliness. Anything was better than that . . .

  better than being without you. And that’s why I left while you were eating with Mr. Liu and waited for you in the street so I could tell you the truth. Was that bad of me?”

  “It was good of you, Marta.”

  “I don’t regret doing it, and I’m never going to regret doing it. For the first time, because you’re here, I’m living without fear . . . because you know the whole truth . . . because you can do whatever you want with me and I’ll accept you . . .”

  “Marta, I . . . also . . . I want to tell you —”

  The telephone rang.

  “García?”

  “Speaking.”

  “The person we talked to yesterday wants to see you as soon as possible.”

  “But —”

  “We’re sending a car from the office to pick you up. Wait outside.”

  “But, Colonel, it’s just that —”

  “Outside.”

  He hung up.

  “You have to go out?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s not right. You’re so tired, you barely slept last night, I heard you leaving at six this morning . . .”

  “I went to the Turkish baths. Goodbye, Marta.”

  “Should I make dinner for you?”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back, Marta. Go to sleep in the bedroom and —”

  “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be home. Go to bed and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  He went into the bedroom, picked up his hat, and returned to the living room. Marta hugged him and kissed him on the mouth. This kiss lasted a long time. She’s leading the charge. And me acting like a chump, so paternal that she had to be the one to start things rolling. More like a faggot. Oh, dear, don’t say such things, you’ll make me blush! Faggot, fucking faggot! She’s made me bashful. And those Russians, seeing and hearing everything, me being all fatherly and she wanting to get it on. And that fucking del Valle! Just when I’m making headway. And I’ve never done it with a Chinese gal! And she makes my head spin, it’s not like with the others. Maybe all Chinese gals are like this. Or maybe I’m just out of my league. The gringo, the Russian . . . and Marta! They’re all in a different league — so professional, so Outer Mongolia, so international intrigue. And me, I’m just a stiff factory —assembly line. And Marta. Damn it! Even people wearing huaraches are digging their high heels into me. And I can’t even make a play. Like I don’t understand anything anymore. Like everything has to be explained to me very very slowly. Get with it, you foolish old man, you won’t get anywhere with words! Then again, all those loving words from Marta make me smell a rat. Fucking Marta! She makes me do the stupidest things . . .