DARK BLISS (Dangerous Games,)

by Smart, Madison

  “Couple of blocks from here,” said Rock. “Jorge’s all right but I’d just as soon he didn’t know where we’re going.” He pointed to an alley. “I want to keep off the street. We’ll follow that to the garage.”

  Alleys were dark, dirty and dangerous, but in Rock’s presence, I walked down this one as secure as if I traveled in an armored car. We briskly strode past dumpsters and idling trucks, stepping around puddles.

  “What were you and Jorge talking about?” I asked.

  “Soccer. I keep up with the teams. In this country, soccer’s bigger than basketball and football combined. You can start a conversation anywhere if you follow the game. What about you? The two of you were chatting up a storm while I was on the phone. How did you manage that without knowing Spanish.”

  “Nothing really. Mostly how to say ‘truck’ in Spanish. I figured you didn’t want him overhearing whatever you were telling Tío Luis, so I just distracted him with dumb questions.”

  He looked at me with surprise and something like regard. “Smart girl.”

  I beamed. “What kind of a name is Tío, by the way?”

  “Not a name. Means ‘uncle.’”

  “He’s your uncle?”

  “Not by blood but every other way. Been in my life all my life. Good old man. I was in a bad way when I came down here. He helped me get myself straightened out.”

  I wanted to know more but that was something to leave until later. If Rock wanted me to know, he would tell me in his own time. And then I had an alarming thought. Once he got me to Hermosillo, Rock might well vanish from my life! In fact, he probably would. We were two people thrown together by chance. Only the need to see me safe in the American consulate was holding him to me. Otherwise, we were worlds apart. Yes, we were pulled sexually to each other, but that wasn’t enough to keep us together. Rock had the kind of rugged masculinity that made girls swoon. Once I was out of his life, there’s be another girl. I didn’t like that thought one bit.

  Then I remembered the motorcycle. When I had a Mexican lawyer, he could arrange for me to tell the police what happened. Of course Rock would have to come forward to help clear his name. That would be hard for him. He seemed allergic to any kind of public visibility. Still, there was no other way to get his bike back. There might be a court hearing, which might require my presence. Even if it didn’t, I could use it as an excuse to see him again.

  Overprotective Richard wouldn’t like the idea of me returning to Mexico for any reason. His solution would be simply to wire Rock the money to buy a new motorcycle – a better one. I could imagine how that would go over with Rock, like tipping a fireman for saving a child. Besides, he didn’t want a new bike. He wanted his old one back. I’d been around him long enough to see that his motorcycle meant more to him than reliable transportation.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of our destination, which I could hear before I could see it. “Here we are,” said Rock a minute later, stopping in front of a large, whitewashed metal building loud with the racket of men working on machines. We went through a back door into a large open space with several sweaty mechanics in overalls leaning over car engines. One of them spotted us and yelled irritably, pointing at the door to the front office. No doubt we were in an employees-only area.

  Rock didn’t move, replying in Spanish. I don’t know if it was his tone or his words, but the man checked his irritation and walked away. A minute or so later, he returned with a bald, broad-faced man whose preoccupied look vanished when he saw Rock. “Amigo!” he cried.

  The two heartily embraced in what was becoming a familiar ritual to me. Some rapid Spanish followed and I was introduced. “Tomás, este es mi amiga, Rory.” Tomás wiped his large, calloused hand on a rag and held it out. greeting me without the customary sexual sizing-up.

  He gestured for us to follow and we soon were sitting in a small, tidy office. While he and Rock talked, I studied an array of photos on a nearby shelf. There were a number of them, going all the way back to a wedding photograph of a much younger Tomás, arm wrapped around his new bride. Beside this were photos of numerous children, including a group shot of his family in front of a New Year’s banner that said “Feliz 2014!” Tomás stood in the middle, his wife on one side and a girl about my age on the other. Two younger girls stood nearby.

  I understood now why there was no leer in his eyes when we said hello. He was probably the kind of father who stayed up late whenever his daughter went on a date, nervous until she was safely home.

  He and Rock rose. I did the same and we followed him through the garage to a room in back. It was stacked with automotive supplies but there was also a small refrigerator, card table, folding chairs and a cot. Tomás gestured expansively. “Mi casa es su casa!” he said with a boisterous laugh. Rock and I both laughed, less at the humor than at our host’s hearty hospitality.

  After he left, Rock encouraged me to use the cot for a nap. “Be another couple of hours before Tío Luis gets here.”

  “I doubt I can sleep. I’m still pretty wired and there’s so much noise. I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Is there anywhere in Mexico that you don’t have an old amigo?”

  He smiled. “Lot of places, but I have a few friends here and there. Like I said, I spent my summers here. Tomás’s family lived just a few houses from my grandparents. He and I played a lot of soccer. When I moved back, I made a point of dropping in to see him. Turned out I was able to do him a favor.”

  “What was the favor?”

  “Oh just a little security thing.”

  “Little security thing you don’t care to talk about?”

  “No point. Over and done with. Boring story really.”

  “I see. Did anyone die?”

  He gave me a thin smile. “No, they all left town before it came to that.” He opened the mini-fridge. “Want a drink? We got beer and soft drinks. Cokes, Dr. Pepper and Fanta – orange and lemon-lime.” I asked for a Coke. He took an orange Fanta for himself and said he was going for a walk around the block.

  “I thought the idea was to lay low.”

  “We are. Or you are rather. Without you, I’m just another guy. Little bigger than most maybe but a cop won’t give me a second look. I want to size up the immediate neighborhood, see what the buildings are like and who’s hanging out. Also figure out an escape route if we need it.”

  “Just in the event of that one chance in twenty?”

  He shrugged. “Habit. Can’t help it.” He left. There was a television in the room and I flipped through the channels: mostly sports shows and the Latin soap operas called telenovelas. I finished my Coke and turned off the TV. I took a Kleenex from a box, tore it up and stuffed my ears, then I flopped on the cot. The auto shop racket was still there but somewhat muted. I closed my eyes. One chance in twenty I’d actually go to sleep, but I took it.

  “I Am Their Champion!”

  I woke to a gentle shaking of my shoulder. “Wake up,” said Rock. “Tío Luis is here. He’s waiting for us outside.”

  I stretched and yawned. I retrieved the comb and brush from my purse. “Where’s the bathroom? I need to fix my hair.”

  Rock showed me, then handed me a large round cardboard box. “Tío Luis brought this for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Inside was a Styrofoam head and on it a platinum blonde wig that would have embarrassed Dolly Parton. “I can’t wear this!” I protested. “I’ll look like a hooker!”

  “I don’t know about that, but what you won’t look like is a redhead. Besides, you won’t be on the street. You’ll be in a pickup with me and Tío Luis.”

  “This won’t fool anyone. It’s obviously a wig.”

  “You mean it won’t fool another woman.”

  “It won’t fool anyone.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Look, there’s a lot of bottle blondes down here and believe it or not, the first thought that pops into the minds of
most men isn’t whether or not it’s a girl’s natural hair color.”

  “I—”

  “Conversation is over.” He pointed to the restroom. “When you come out, I want to see you in that wig.”

  Rock’s high-handed ways were annoying but he was right. In the restroom, I tied the scarf around my hair and put on the wig, fussing with it for a few minutes. It was old but in good shape; the owner clearly prized it. I rejoined Rock and we made our way through the garage to the front office. “Whose wig is this?” I asked.

  “Belongs to a lady I know.”

  “What is she doing with it?”

  “Wears it for fun, parties and festivals and such.”

  “Oh.”

  As I was going out the door, there was a loud wolf-whistle from behind us. I cocked an eyebrow at Rock. He grinned. “See, they don’t care whether it’s your real hair or not.”

  “Uh-huh, now all I need is a halter top and spandex pants and my disguise will be complete.”

  We said goodbye to Tomás, who did a double-take when he saw me in the wig. He embraced Rock and politely shook my hand, saying “Vaya con Dios.” I wondered what he would tell his daughter if she wore something like this. Probably not “Godspeed.”

  Sitting behind the wheel in a pickup outside was a small old man as brown and wrinkled as a walnut. Tío Luis’s most notable feature was his head, which was completely bald but for a fringe of white hair like a monk’s tonsure. He had a huge Zapata mustache and he was extremely fit, with muscles of a man half his age. Or maybe a third his age, it was hard to guess how old he was. Rock had said he was a good friend of his grandfather’s but he was anything but frail.

  He greeted me warmly, speaking English but with a heavy sprinkling of Spanish. “I comprendo you have hair red and very hermosa. I am expectant to see it.”

  “Thank you, Tío,” I said. “I look forward to that time too.”

  As before, Rock had me sit in the middle. We drove out of Cosalo and followed a state road to the highway. “You’ve known Rock a long time, Tío?” I asked.

  “Oh sí. Since Miguelito was un niño poquito, little baby.”

  “I bet he was cute.”

  “Oh sí, so chubby and…” He paused and then said to Rock, “Miguel, cuál es la palabra para la ronda?”

  “Word you want is ‘round.’” Rock replied in a flat tone.

  “Round, sí. So chubby and round. And qué voz , what a voice! When he cried, he woke up the mules!”

  He smiled and I laughed. I heard a heavy sigh to my right. Men are usually embarrassed at tales of their infancy. I decided to fast forward a few years. “And when he was a boy, what was he like?” Rock gave me an annoyed look. He carefully rationed information about himself and I could see he didn’t like the idea of my learning too much. I might start calling him “Miguelito.”

  “Oh, un lunchador! A battler, a warrior! Always in pealas, fights. His poor abulea, she—“

  “Abuela?” I said. “What’s—”

  “Grandmother,” said Rock curtly.

  “Sí, his grandmama, she would pray for him.”

  “Grandmama prayed for everyone, Tío,” said Rock irritably. “She prayed for you all the time.”

  “For you?” I asked Tío Luis.

  “Oh sí.” He turned and smiled at me. “You see, soy un hereje.”

  “He’s a heretic,” Rock translated.

  “You are?”

  “The worst kind. I am a Baptist.”

  I had to laugh. Rock shook his head ruefully. “It’s true. Tío Luis’s father was a lay minister. This country is Catholic to its roots. Grandmama—and everyone else—believed he was going to hell.”

  “Quién sabe? Maybe I will,” said Tío Luis with a twinkle. “God could be a Catholic. That would explain why there is suffering, you know? But I want to finish telling you about Miguel the lunchador. So finally his abuela says to me, ‘Luis, you must talk to Miguelito.’ And I say, ‘Rosa, that is for the boy’s abuelo to do, no para mí.’ And she says, ‘Enrique is on the road. He will not be back for two weeks! Por favor, Luis.’ So I take him aside and say, ‘Miguelito, a fight now and then is not a bad thing para un niño, for a boy. You learn to stand up for yourself. But this, todo el tiempo fighting all the time. Bastante, bastante, it must stop.’” Tío Luis turned his amused, wrinkled face to mine. “And what do you think our Miguel said?”

  “What”

  “He said, ‘Tío Luis, I do not fight for myself, nada para mí. Soy grande y nadie me molesta, no one bothers me. But the bullies, they pick on niños pequeños and niños débiles, little boys and weak boys, and even on niñas. Well, that makes me so mad that I fight them.’”

  I turned to Rock. “That’s why you got in fights?”

  “I got in fights because I liked to fight. That was just a handy excuse.”

  I smiled. “I’m not sure I buy that.”

  “There’s more,” said Tío Luis. “So I said, ‘Bien, bien. Fine, that is fine. I am proud of you, Miguel. Pero no se puede defender a todos. But you can’t protect everyone. Sometimes you must paseo, walk away.’ And what do you think our Miguel said?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He said, ‘No, Tío! Nunca, nunca. Never, never. Siempre y cuando se me necesita– As long as they need me– Voy a luchar por los pequeños– I will fight for the little and weak.’” Tío Luis paused and then said in a ringing voice, “‘Yo soy su campeón!’” He took his eyes from the road to glance at me. “That means, ‘I am their champion.’ And that is why he was always in fights.” He chuckled at the memory.

  I was speechless. I looked in wonder at Rock, who looked embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, had a pretty grandiose vision of myself back then.”

  “How old were you?”

  “When this happened? Eight or nine.”

  “And did you fight all the way through school?”

  “This wasn’t in school. I was down here on summer break, but I take your meaning. No, as a matter of fact, the older I got, the less fighting I did. My last year of high school, I don’t think I had a single brawl.”

  “You learned to walk away?”

  He gave me that thin smile. “No, they did. When I was around, nobody got picked on.… Hey, Tío, speaking of champions, what do you think of Herrera. You think he can put the national team back together?”

  Tío shook his head sadly. “No sé, no sé. I don’t know. Just two years ago, Mexico fue el terror de dos continentes. We humbled the Americans. We kicked Brazil’s ass. But el camino, the road back is a long one.”

  “Well, I don’t think Herrera is the man for the job. We need a coach with more fire in his belly, you know? Mas caliente!”

  “Tiempo, tiempo, Miguel. Time, give the man some time…”

  I sighed. Rock had used his soccer gambit to derail Tío Luis from further reminiscence. There would be no more tales of the adventures of little Miguel, not on this ride. I’d have to get the old man alone if I wanted to learn more about Rock before he was Rock.

  We drove through the sere countryside, past scarce straggling towns, over the lizard-backed violet hills and the few grass-green watercourses. The land began to rise and we climbed hills and then low mountains. Tío Luis parked the truck on a pull-over with a view and we got out. Below us were low-hanging clouds and dense, green forests. A river threaded through the trees, a mere strip of blue at this height.

  “Are we still in Mexico?” I said. “This looks like Oregon.”

  “Most Americans only know northern Mexico, the burnt, dry land around the border,” said Rock. “Or else Cancún, which is tropical and on the Atlantic side. We’re going in the other direction, the Pacific.”

  “All the way to the coast?”

  “Yeah. Parajito started out as a fishing village. Then it became a beach town. Now it’s begun to attract tourists looking for authenticity, so of course the locals have begun prettying it up, restaurants with authentic Mexican cooking and bars with authentic Mexi
can music.” He snorted.

  “You don’t seem to think much of that.”

  “I don’t fault the town for wanting Yankee dollars and I understand why Americans want something more real than Cancún, but the true Mexico? That’s deeper than you can find on a week’s vacation. It’s not a place. It’s cultural, even deeper than culture. It’s a state of mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hard to explain. Do you believe in fate?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a little.” Below us, a large hawk drifted lazily on a thermal, wings spread wide. He vanished in a small cloud.

  “You can’t believe ‘a little’ in fate. That’s like being ‘a little pregnant.’ Either you believe in fate or you believe in free will. The two don’t coexist.”

  I shrugged. “I guess I never gave it much thought.” A flock of birds flew below us. Suddenly the hawk dropped out of the cloud and the flock broke apart. One shrieked in the grip of the hawk’s talons. Predator and prey plunged downward into another cloud.

  “If you’re like most Americans, you believe in free will. That’s been the default faith of the West since the Renaissance. Nothing is written. We make our future. It’s fun to see a movie where the hero and heroine are fated for each other but we don’t take it seriously. The Spaniards who conquered Mexico believed they wrote their own endings. The Indians—Aztecs and Toltecs and Mayans—didn’t. They believed everything was fated; people only acted out what the gods had ordained. For the Aztecs, the point of battle wasn’t to kill the enemy but to capture him so he could have his heart torn out atop a pyramid.”

  Gripping its prey, the hawk rose from the cloud and flapped homeward, perhaps to feed young hawks.

  “That’s barbaric,” I told Rock.

  “As barbaric as the practice of the enlightened Romans to crucify rebels and break their legs so they suffocated, very slowly and in great pain. Every civilization has its brutal side. Here’s my point. For the sacrifice to be perfect, the victim had to be almost uninjured, except for some ritual cuts. That’s why prisoners were called las rayas, the striped ones. If a warrior was cut this way, he’d surrender because that was the sign the gods wanted him sacrificed.”