DARK BLISS (Dangerous Games,)

by Smart, Madison

  “Thank you! I’m sorry but I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Then we will speak English,” she responded in a voice with no trace of accent. She turned to the children and spoke sternly in a high, fluttery language that, whatever it was, was certainly not Spanish.

  The kids immediately calmed down and the girl reluctantly climbed off Rock. They all turned politely toward me and I saw five smiling faces topped by jet black hair. Their coloring was off for a Mexican family and like their parents, they were on the short side. Mexicans with strong Indian blood are often short but also inclined to stockiness. This family was uniformly thin.

  Then I noticed their eyes. “You’re Chinese!” I exclaimed.

  As one, the entire family put their hands together and bowed. They rose, the kids all grinning, and I could see that the gesture was part courtesy and part family humor at what must have been typical surprise. “Not completely Chinese, honorable young lady,” said the man with a smile. “Welcome to Casa García.”

  “Rory, these are my old friends Art and Min García,” said Rock. I shook hands with the man and woman and then with each of the children as Rock introduced them. The oldest son, with muscles that looked enhanced by weightlifting, was “Arturo Zang Wei.” The next oldest, a skinny boy in his mid-teens with glasses, was “Ricardo Wang Xiu.” Two identical girls of grade school age were the twins, “Maria Li Na” and “Rosa Liu Yang.”

  “And this beauty,” said Rock, hand on the shoulder of the middle schooler who’d swarmed on him earlier, “is Frieda Li Li.”

  “No!” she exclaimed fiercely. “My name’s not Frieda.”

  “It was the last time I was here,” he said in puzzlement.

  “I’m Tiffany now but you can call me Tiff.”

  Min rolled her eyes but Art only chuckled. “She’s going through a sort of identity crisis at the moment.”

  “It’s not a crisis! I’m Tiffany.”

  “Quién es?” said a high, quavering voice from the back. “Quién está aquí?” The family parted and a tiny old woman with a bun of silver hair appeared. At sight of each other, she and Rock beamed in delight.

  “Señora García!”

  “Miguelito!”

  I knew enough Spanish to recognize that she was calling him “little Miguel.” Rock’s friendship with the Garcías obviously went far back, to a time before anyone called him “Rock.” He bent and embraced her, planting a kiss on the cheek she offered him, then turned to me. “Señora, esta es mi amiga, Rory.”

  She smiled and extended a frail hand. “Tengo el placer de conocerte, Rory.”

  I took it in mine. “Very pleased to meet you, Señora.”

  “Have you eaten? asked Min.

  “Matter of fact, no,” replied Rock.

  “Perfect timing!” said Art. “We’re just sitting down. Frieda-Tiffany, set two more places.”

  A round table at the very back of the restaurant was crowded with steaming dishes. Rock and I sat across from each other, he flanked by the two teenage boys and I between the twins. Art sat between his mother and wife and Frieda-Tiff sat next to Min, though she spent half her time on her feet, serving or fetching things from the kitchen or cutting food for the twins. Poor Tiff, I thought, middle child but eldest daughter. None of the perks of seniority and all the burdens of being Mama’s helper. It was a position I knew well. Small wonder she wanted to shuck a plain-Jane moniker like Frieda for a sparkly American one.

  “I’m amazed to find a Chinese restaurant outside Mexico City,” I said.

  “Everybody likes Chinese food,” said Art. “We get a lot of regional trade. People think nothing of driving a hundred miles for Min’s cooking.”

  “García’s Cocina has a reputation,” said Min. “It’s been here sixty-five years.”

  “Sixty-five years!”

  “His grandmother and her husband started it,” said Rock. “My granddad was a trucker. I spent summers in Mexico, kept him company on more than one trip. Wherever he was going, he always made sure to stop here going out and coming back. Art and I are practically the same age. He was always around, waiting tables or in the kitchen. We took to each other.”

  “Thick as thieves,” grinned Art.

  “When I was in college I worked here every summer. We spent our free time drinking beer and chasing girls.”

  “You may have chased girls,” said Min tartly. “Art had a girl, I believe.”

  “Yeah,” said Rock hastily. “I chased girls. That’s what I meant.”

  “I bet.” She dug an elbow into her husband, who was trying not to laugh, and turned to me. “You have to taste our new dish. Frieda, go get more chimáles.”

  The girl pretended not to hear. Min sighed. “Please, Tiffany.” The child sprang up and darted into the kitchen.

  “What’s a chimále?”

  “We serve all the standard fare,” said Art. “Sweet and sour pork, kung pao chicken, all that, but we’re branching out. Americans like yourself want a little dining adventure, so we’re experimenting with fusion food.”

  Frieda appeared with a plate of what looked like tamales. “Chimáles!” she announced dramatically.

  I took one and cut a slice. “Delicious!” I exclaimed when I bit into it. “Tastes like…”

  “Donald Duck!” said Tiff, which made the twins protest loudly.

  “Don’t tease your sisters,” Min told her.

  “Donald is the name of their pet duck,” Art explained.

  “It’s duck stewed in bamboo shoots with ginger and a few other spices,” said Min. We also make them with barbecued pork.”

  “And next week,” said Art, “we’re introducing a dish called Mandarin Orange Ahi Tuna Tartar with Guacamole.”

  “Loco! Completamente loco,” muttered Señora García.

  Art smiled and shrugged. “Mama believes in sticking to the tried and true. Mama, we’re not dropping anything from the menu, but we’ve got to keep up with the times.”

  “Humph,” she snorted.

  You could see Art and Min loved cooking almost as much as they loved their family. The entire time they talked, dishes were being passed back and forth: a large platter of white rice, plates piled with roast chicken, bok choy and carrots, bowls of savory soup, all washed down with small cups of hot tea, constantly filled by Tiffany.

  Some families let the conversation lag when the meal is served. Not the Garcías. With five children, there was no shortage of chatter. We learned that last week Arturo Jr. had scored two goals for his school’s soccer team. Ricardo had just finished A Hundred Years of Solitude and, as an aspiring writer, intended to read everything Gabriel García Marquez had written. Maria was taking ballet lessons and leapt from her chair to demonstrate poses until her mother told her to finish her dinner. Rosa, who was learning piano, had just mastered Mozart’s Variaciones sobre Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Would we like to hear her play it after dinner?

  “We certainly would!” I said. “And maybe Maria can dance it.”

  “It doesn’t have a dance,” said Rosa, not happy at sharing the limelight with her sister.

  “She can improvise one.”

  “Sí, I can improvise!” Rosa told her twin. “What’s improvise?” she said, turning to me.

  “It means make it up on the spot.”

  “And I can sing it,” said Tiffany. “I’m going to be a singer,” she told me gravely.

  “That’s wonderful! And when you come to my city, I’ll be sure to go to your concert.”

  “You will?”

  “I certainly will.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Right now I live in a town called Boston.”

  "Dónde está eso?" asked Rosa.

  “Use English,” instructed Min. “Rory doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  “Where’s Boston?”

  Before I could answer, I was peppered with more questions.

  “What kind of a name is Rory?” asked Maria.

  “Do you roar?” joked Rica
rdo.

  “Are you Rock’s girlfriend?” asked Tiffany.

  “Basta, basta. Deja que la mujer a comer,” instructed Min and though I didn’t understand the words, once again I got the import. The children’s attention shifted to Rock, whom they clearly regarded as a dashing, devilish, unofficial uncle. Between bites he regaled them with an account of a motorcycle race in Mexico City. To my continuing surprise, this man of short, blunt sentences was an excellent storyteller. He did sound effects and humorous impressions and his voice turned low and intense as he described the end of the race, where he lost by a whisker to the three-time champion, a German named Gunther. He pronounced the name with a sinister accent, Gooon-THER, conjuring up the image of a sneering Nazi with a monocle and artificial hand. I suspected this last part was embellished for his audience, which punctuated the story with whoops and giggles.

  Dinner over, Min and Tiff cleared the table while the twins took me to a stairway behind the kitchen that led to the family’s living quarters, a charming combination of Oriental and Hispanic décor. “Are there a lot of Chinese in Mexico?” I asked the girls.

  “Yes,” said Rosa. “Lots of us.”

  “Millions!” said Maria.

  Arturo Jr. laughed as he emerged from the stairway. “Hardly that many. A lot of Chinese came to the States to help build the railroads. Quite a few drifted across the border. That was the first wave. The second came in the nineteen twenties when Mexico encouraged immigration to help populate the north part of the country. That’s when Great-Grandma’s family came over.”

  “Now days, most Chinese are like us,” said Ricardo. “Chinese by birth but Mexican in every other way.”

  “Hear me play!” said Rosa, running to a piano in the corner of the living room and banging out Mozart. I sat down to listen while Maria pirouetted. Ensconced in the midst of this happy, loving family the horror of the morning day seemed distant and unreal.

  “Someone’s Looking for You”

  Art got up from the table and went to the front door, gesturing for Rock to join him. They stepped out in the warm night air. The two lit cigarettes and Art studied the street. “Fellow came around last week, asking about you,” he said.

  Rock stiffened. “What sort of fellow?”

  “American. Maybe thirty years old, dressed like a tourist but he was no tourist. Way he talked, sounded to me like a cop of some kind. Like what he really wanted to do was interrogate me but had to be polite.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Wanted to know if I’d seen you lately. Said no, I hadn’t. Wanted to know if I knew how to get in touch with you. Said no, I didn’t. Said he was with that company or agency or whatever it was that you used to work for. He handed me some horseshit about an insurance claim that had been settled. Wanted to give you a big check. He knew a lot about you, Rock, even down to what kind of bike you ride. You in trouble?”

  “I am if they find me. He may really be with them. They wouldn’t be trying to locate me if everything was peachy.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  “In that case he only wants to kill me. What I used to do, I made enemies.”

  “He left a card.” Art got out his wallet and handed it to Rock. It said:

  Walter N. Turner

  D.A.R.C.A.A.L.C.N.

  909-5535-1306

  wturner@darc.gov

  Rock read the card and then tore it into small pieces, tossing them to the night wind. “That all?”

  “No, I think he left watchers too. Like I said, he knew a lot about you, probably figured you’d show up here in a couple of weeks like usual.” He smiled. “Though this is the first time you’ve brought somebody. Seems like a nice girl, little young maybe.”

  “She was in trouble, might still be. She lost her papers. I’m taking her to the consulate, for pay of course.”

  “I see.”

  “This is just a job.”

  “Of course.”

  “What about the watchers?”

  “Well, I don’t have your training so I can’t be absolutely positive, but I keep an eye on my street. We’re downtown. There’s always guys hanging out, killing time on the corner. But not the same guys, day after day.”

  “Professionals?”

  “Oh no, just locals. Couple of kids about Arturo’s age.”

  “Maybe that’s all they are, boys with time on their hands.”

  “I don’t think so. They work in shifts. One from late morning to mid-afternoon, then the other takes over until we close. There doesn’t seem to be a night shift. You showed up about ten minutes after we’d locked the doors. He might have already gone home.”

  Rock put out his cigarette. “Or not.” He clapped his friend on the arm. “Thanks, Art.”

  “Thought you’d want to know. Would have called you if I did know how to reach you. You’re a little paranoid, you know?”

  “Won’t deny it. When I was in the sand box—”

  “Sand box?”

  “What we called Afghanistan. Over there, you get in the habit of being paranoid or you get hurt.”

  “That was years ago, amigo.”

  “Yeah but, well, in my line of work, it was useful there too. Problem is, it’s a tough habit to break. Art, I’m sorry but we’ve got to go. I want to keep maximum distance between me and whoever’s looking for me.” The two went inside.

  The twins were halfway through their recital when Rock appeared. I patted the sofa for him to join me. Instead, he gestured for me to get up. I rose, not a little puzzled. He began to applaud loudly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, girls, but we have to go.”

  Rosa and Marie wailed in protest. So did I. “What for? I want to stay!”

  “Something’s come up,” he said tersely.

  My hand went to my mouth in alarm. He shook his head. “No, not that. Something else. We need to leave. Now.” He took my hand and pulled me toward the stairs. Arturo and Ricardo came in, adding their voices to the chorus of complaint.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” Rock apologized. “I really am. Can’t be helped. I’ll be back soon as I can. Bike rides for everyone!” He hurried me down the stairs. There were rushed hugs and farewells with Art and Min and another kiss for Señora García, who charmed me by demanding one from me as well. As we walked to the door, Tiffany jumped on Rock’s back, saying that either he stayed or she was going with us. Art reached around her waist and pulled the girl off.

  “What’s this about?” I said as we got on the motorcycle.

  “Can’t say exactly. Art said someone was asking about me. Nothing to do with you.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Doubt it. Mostly danger of being pulled back.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Like I said, it hasn’t anything to do with you.”

  “But do we have to leave right away?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “And what about the hotel? My bath?”

  “Can’t be helped. Sorry.” The engine came to life and we pulled out of the parking lot. The García family stood in the doorway, waving as we passed. I waved back sadly. Passing through Ciudad Flores’ downtown, I spotted what was undoubtedly the hotel, a charming three-story structure that must have been a least a hundred years old, with columns and cornices and French balconies. It had been painted recently, a lovely pale rose, the window ledges done in the aqua blue I saw so often in Mexico.

  I suppressed a sigh. It was cozy and romantic and we were forgoing it and a lovely evening with a loving family because of what I began to think was Rock’s ongoing paranoia. He was a man of contradictions. The jovial uncle who hugged children and told stories had vanished, replaced by the brusque man of action. Grateful as I was to that man, I found myself acutely missing the other.

  Mile after mile of highway rolled beneath us. I couldn’t say how long or far we traveled but headlights became fewer and eventually the only things on the road were Rock’s motorcycle and the big tractor-trailers. The night e
nveloped all the vehicles like an ocean, broad and deep, as we made our way through the dark, a minnow among whales.

  Tired and full, clutching Rock’s back, I drifted from time to time into a kind of daze, lulled by the hum of traffic and rushing wind. I woke from one of these to find we had left the highway and were pulling into the parking lot of a motel, a big one, crowded with trucks of every kind and size.

  “We’ll spend the night here,” he announced as he climbed off. I followed him into the motel office, not liking what I saw on the way. The sprawling two-story structure was seedy and badly in need of a paint job, its few trash cans jammed to overflowing. Despite the hour, small clusters of truckers in sweaty undershirts were gathered here and there, drinking beer and talking loudly.

  The office was unswept and its cheap paneling had begun to warp. The bored young clerk eyed me and smirked, but his expression turned to bafflement when Rock said he wanted a room for each of us: first floor, side by side. The clerk told him the best he could do was two on the second floor. Rock scowled and took them.

  We went back to the motorcycle and drove until we were as close to our rooms as we could get, several trucks preventing Rock from parking directly beneath them. He wasn’t happy about that. “I like to keep that bike close. It’s worth a lot of money.”

  My room was what I expected, cramped and drab with fake wood furniture that was vinyl veneer on top, fiberboard underneath. The sheets were clean but the mattress on my bed had been pounded thin by years of hard use. There was of course no bathtub but at least there was a shower, although one with cracked tile.

  The place was stuffy and Rock dialed the thermostat so that cool air began to flow into the space. “I don’t want you going outside for any reason,” he instructed, now in full drill sergeant mode. “If you need me, knock on the wall.”

  “What if you don’t hear me?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll hear you. And you’ll hear me, also whoever’s on the other side of you.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s one o’clock. I want to be on the road by eight at the latest. Any questions?”

  I sprang to attention and saluted. “No, sir!”