Dancing with the Tiger (16 page)

With burning hands, Hugo pushed past the curtain into Pedro's house. He tore through the dead man's belongings—kitchen, closet, bed, dustballs, flip-flops, condoms—berating himself with a tickertape of expletives. His stomach churned a sluice of acid and nerves. He tried to think like a man with something to hide.

Outside, he searched the yard, studied the trees, the crisscross of branches, language he could not decipher. Finding nothing, he roared through the shitty house again, then collapsed outside in a plastic chair, pulled out a smoke. He could barely manage the cigarette. The logistics of fire and ash.

The
cabrón
would have needed to sell the mask quietly, without alerting Reyes. He might have sought help from his uncle Berto, a museum janitor who stole trinkets nobody missed, but such plans were delicate, took time. Hugo watched the clouds, pontoons of white nothing. A church bell
tolled. The road was quiet, the entire town in mourning. Then he figured out the riddle, just like that:
The idiot had hidden the mask in his car.

Pedro's house had no lock, but his car did. Locking the mask in the trunk would make sense to a simple man.
But where was the car?
Not here, where it belonged. Pedro must have snuck back to San Juan del Monte that morning. Parade roadblocks would have blocked his entry. The pool cleaner had not known he would die at Carnival with his car parked awkwardly across town, this basic chore left undone. (Hugo preferred to think that Pedro had died, not that he'd been killed, not that
he
had killed him.) The death mask was still inside the car, baking in the sun, waiting to be found.

Hugo had already discovered a spare car key in a pitcher. He snatched it and slunk into town, cap low, lest he be recognized. He worked systematically, block by block, moving out from the
zócalo
, carving ever wider squares.

If he didn't find the mask, Reyes would kill him.

If the police found him, he'd rot in jail.

Yellow girl made of yellow sun. What I do, I do for you.

Of the millions of sedans, he wanted only one. Blue Ford. Beat-up seats. They should invent a car that called your name.
Hugo. I'm over here, asshole, frying by the dumpster.
Or better yet, a woman's sexy voice.
Papito, I'm hot. Open my doors.

Eight blocks from the
zócalo
, he found Pedro's car dozing under a tree. The way his luck was going, he half expected it to drive off when he got close. He slipped in the key. The door flew open. He checked the burning seats, dove under them, opened the trunk, weeded through the dead man's crap, cooler, spare tire, jumper cables, a bong. Nothing. He calmed himself, checked everything again. More nothing. He slammed his fist on the hood. Left a dent. Thunder shook his insides. He searched
the sky for the reason God never saw fit to care for him. The sun would not stop shining. The trees didn't give a damn. Maybe he should pray to Santa Muerte. Whose side was that bitch on?

—

Back at Pedro's house,
Hugo dumped drawers, smashed trinkets. His thoughts swarmed, dreams mixing with anxiety, worries sifting with memories, memories with omens of tigers and guns. He saw the girl's father lift her yellow dress. He saw Santa Muerte taunting him to
blow a little smoke on your mother
. He saw Soledad, lit in the doorway.
You are just pretending to plant dahlias.
He saw the burning comet disintegrate into sparks. He saw Pedro shoveling tacos, giving a thumbs-up.

Where was the
pinche
mask?

Everything was somewhere even when it was lost.

A fly landed on the lid of an orange soda can.

Hugo kicked a spare chair. Pedro's house depressed him. The
burro
had never learned to care for himself. His whole life he'd still needed his mother. By his bed hung a framed photograph of Señora Leonora Modica de Rodríguez, a twig of a woman, a living skeleton. The old woman grinned like she had secrets she'd take to the grave. Hugo smiled at his stupidity.
Motherfucker.
He'd never been a man of profanity, but he was no longer the same man. Of course—a Mexican with something to hide would give it to his mother.

Hugo picked up the fallen chair, set it straight.

At the corner cantina, he ordered a mescal, laid two coins on the bar. His knife was clean. His heart was clean. He was new water rushing over ancient rocks. He crossed himself, hitched his jeans, took a bus into the mountains.

He'd sit at the bar and have a Coke. He could do that. He'd lost his wife. For years, he had drunk to ease that sorrow, but she wasn't coming back. He had come to terms with this.
Just wrapping things up.
Three o'clock. Blinds carving horizontal strips of light.
What can I get you?
Bottles glimmered with mystery and warmth. Daniel Ramsey said something. Either he said a dry vodka martini or he said a Coke, no ice. He thought both and said one. His hands shook. He grabbed a toothpick, bit down, pulled the splinters from his mouth, crammed peanuts into his dry trap. Over at a booth, a woman in a narrow gray suit sipped seltzer. She kept adding the same column of numbers and frowning. He remembered La Campana, how he had been nursing his queasy stomach with Campari when Manuel López burst through the door saying the
señor
was needed on the phone. The wind chimes shook.
There has been an accident
involving Señora Ramsey.
Daniel had not moved. He finished his drink. Manuel was nearly in tears, pulling his arm.
Señor, please. Come now.
He'd pushed the Mexican away.
I hear you. Don't rush me.
He was sick. The drink was helping. He tipped the glass to capture the last drop. The ice fell against his face. He ordered another. Just like now, he'd ordered another. Coke or vodka. One word could change your life. You jump. You bet. You marry. You quit. You drink. You ask. You buy. You touch. You remember. You say yes. You say no. You say
I'll have what you're having.
You say
one more, please.
You say
I'm buying.
You say
I have not been this happy since my wife died.
You say
another round.
You say
it's good to have friends.

You say my daughter is in Mexico
just wrapping things up
.

You say, I must go and find her.

The looter spent all day in bed. It was the most peaceful day he could remember, but also the saddest. He understood, because he was not stupid and no longer high, that all that shiny good feeling, the rightness of his every move, the beauty of every moment, was the product of crank, and the only way to make that particular sun rise again was to smoke more, though he also knew, because he was not stupid and no longer high, that chasing that bliss would kill him. The unfairness of this conundrum blasted his insides. Once you had tasted the limits of human ecstasy, how could you settle for less?

He was lucky to be alive and tried not to feel sorry for himself or devise new ways to score drugs. The woman fed him chicken broth and dressed his wounds. He did not ask why she was helping him, for fear
she would stop. No husband appeared. No children or neighbors. Her name was Mari, short for Marisol. Every few hours, she fixed him herbal tea from what looked like pine needles. He'd given up asking what it was called. Some Indian remedy with a fucked-up name.

Finally, his curiosity got the best of him, and he asked her why she was helping him.
“¿Por qué me estás ayudando?”

She was sitting on her stool. Her heaviness inspired confidence.

“This is my penance. For Lent.”

“What did you do?”

Mari shook her head. “I don't remember.”

“I'll pay you back.”

“I don't want drug money.”

“You want sex?'

“With you?” This amused her. “They paid me to keep quiet, but I put the money in your wallet. You will need it to get restarted.”

“Then what can I give you?”

Mari looked around. “Something for my shrine, perhaps. You should thank the Virgin Mary for saving your life.”

The looter closed his eyes, wishing she'd asked for a new TV instead. “For your shrine . . . what? Like incense?”

“
Burro.
Incense costs ten pesos. Is that what your life is worth?” It was the first time he'd seen her angry.

“I'd like more marijuana.” He hoped the formal name sounded medicinal.

“You take too many drugs.”

“Pot is nothing.”

“I can see everything you do in your face.”

“More pot,
Mamá
.”

“I am not your
mamá
.” The woman reached for a joint. “I am your lesbian aunt. Drink your tea.”

—

The next morning,
Mari roused him, saying he needed fresh air. Until then, the looter had left his room only to piss. Though it was still early, heat radiated off the patio in waves. He squinted, took her arm, tried to look brave. She picked up a basket of apricots and led him to a gate.

What he saw was a garden so magical it didn't seem real. Wild orchids, tongue-tied vines, ferns the size of giraffes, bird feeders, coral blossoms—a bit of the Amazon rain forest set in a parched middle-class neighborhood in Mexico. It reminded him of the drawings children make when they're told not to leave any white space.

“I must go to work,” Mari said. “Sit down awhile.”

The looter didn't want to stay alone. “What am I doing here?”

Mari pointed to a bench. “Recuperating.”

She left him. He sat, sneezed. Manure. Lilies. A lot of goddamn pollen. Perfect place for a snake. He wasn't used to nature and couldn't decide if he liked it, though after a moment, he relaxed, stopped trying to be bigger than what was before him. He considered each plant in turn. Orange trees. Cactus like fireworks. A dozen kinds of pleasing flowers he couldn't name. At the far end, Mari's shrine, a three-foot stone statue of the Virgin, arms open, blessed the sheep, no, the flock, the garden, whatever. Votive candles dripped white wax.

Something gray darted past his face. A hummingbird, for God's sake. The bird landed on a tube feeder filled with red sugar syrup. His father had taught him about hummingbirds. Tiny things. Fragile.
Some weighed no more than a penny. Flying like maniacs to stay in one place. Chasing the sweetness of flowers. He knew the feeling. Sadness reached his eyes, watching the damn bird sputtering. Stupid little bird he could kill with his fist.

He missed being high. He missed it more than he missed his father, mother, and old girlfriend combined. He'd been born good, but something had happened. Burdens, failures, and now what could he do? Dig his way out? Put the goodness back? Plant himself like a garden? Every day, a new seed.

He ripped open an apricot, held out its juicy flesh in his palm, tried to look like a tree. Rooted. Strong. But the bird was fixated on the red sauce, dipping its needle beak and guzzling.
Here I am, little bird, with real fruit.
Maybe he should sing. His arm was getting tired. He divided the fruit, held out both hands, balanced. He was thirty seconds from feeling stupid, thirty seconds from jumping the fence to find Pico. Juice gummed between his fingers. The bird wouldn't come. Maybe hummingbirds didn't like apricots. Maybe he should buy the bird a fucking Coke.
No, idiot. Just stand there. Wait. Get used to waiting for good things to happen.

In that quiet, waiting for the bird that never came, he figured out what to give Mari for her shrine—the most sacred object he had ever possessed—but he would need every ounce of cunning and courage, maybe even prayer, to secure it. Mari was right:
His life was worth more than a stick of incense.

The college dropout from Divide, Colorado, was an international treasure.

Visiting Salvador's studio had seemed like a good idea, but now as she stood at his door, her visit struck her as silly and presumptuous. What if his invitation had been a mere pleasantry? Maybe the murder had created a false intimacy that would now leave nothing but awkwardness. What if she hated his paintings? Her friend Alice once joked that the trickiest point in a new relationship was when your lover offered to read his poetry. Well, she'd ask questions, hope he'd mistake curiosity for praise. She'd find her favorite picture and make much of it.

The door opened. Salvador looked tousled. The stubble of his jaw rubbed against her cheek when he planted a single air kiss. She smelled vanilla, a whiff of turpentine.

“I am glad you came, but I feel nervous. Whenever I show someone my art, I worry it is no good.”

“Maybe it isn't,” she said. “Just kidding. I'm sure it's—”

She ducked his mock punch. He led her across a terrace of broken bricks. He'd been expecting her. That was something.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Tired. I couldn't sleep. All yesterday, I wonder what that dead tiger planned to do today. I want to do those things for him, but I don't know what they are.”

“Are you friends with all these people?” Anna pointed to apartments along the garden. She pictured late parties with philosophers and sexy ceramicists.

“Not really. A few. Close your eyes.”

Salvador guided her the remaining steps, then pulled back his hand. No dead babies. Salvador Flores painted still lifes. Plates and bowls and pitchers. The green of fresh peas. Butter yellow. The paintings were feminine; no, Anna corrected herself, domestic. The curve of a spoon. A mug by a white curtain. Simplified. Elemental.
Morning,
Anna decided.
His paintings feel like morning, even in the afternoon.

She sat on the floor before a half-finished painting of a red bowl and a sky-blue pitcher.
They are a couple.
A family in the making. The bowl is pregnant. The pitcher is proud of the bowl. It makes him feel strong to be at her side.
They are not touching but they're together. The bowl is thinking. Expectant. Ready to be of use.

“I would like to crawl inside your paintings.”

Salvador sat next to her. “Crawl?” He didn't know this verb.

“Climb into your paintings and live there.” Anna pantomimed with two fingers.

“Échame más flores.”

This time, she was confused.

He cupped her knee with his palm. “
Throw me more flowers.
You are saying nice things, and I am asking for more. How is your cheek?”

“Better.” Anna gestured to the paintings with her chin. “Is this what your life was like growing up?” She tried to contain her resentment. A happy childhood would make even friendship impossible.

“No, more like that.” He pointed to his palette, a mess of colors, false starts, possibilities.

“You have a big family?”

“It only feels big. You would like my brother. He's smarter than I am, and better-looking. Even my mother likes him best. When we were young I was so jealous of Enrique, I once took
una honda
”—he mimed a slingshot—“and hit him in the eye with a rock.”

Anna couldn't help smiling. “Was he okay?”

“No, not really. He can't judge distances well. He is a handsome man with a fucked-up eye.” Salvador smiled, tentatively. “The women all baby him, and he likes that.”

Anna covered his eye with her hand. “He looks like a pirate?” She laughed. “The other day, you looked like one.”

“Me?” He considered this. “Enrique lives in Guatemala, but he says when he is forty, he will come back to Mexico, find a wife, become a
papi
, and make our mother happy. You want a family? Oh, I forgot. You don't like children.”

“I like children from
afar
.” Anna tapped her boots together. “Do you have a bedroom piece?”

“A what?”

“Bedroom piece. Artists hide their best work in the bedroom because it's not for sale.”

“If I hung my paintings in my bedroom, I would never sleep. In the middle of the night, I would start painting, changing things.”

“You're a perfectionist?”

“No. I just hate most of my work.”

“That's crazy.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “You like what you write?”

“I don't really write.” She caught herself. She was supposed to be writing a book. “I'm just
starting
to write for myself. Before, I mostly corrected other people's mistakes. I was a fact-checker. I checked their facts.”

“Facts.” He shook his head, skeptical. “Never believe facts.”

Anna felt affronted for no good reason. “So what do you believe in? Science? Religion? The lottery?”

“Children.”

“But you don't have any.”

“It's easiest to believe in something you don't have.”

He took her hand in his lap. They sat there, leaning against the wall. The paintings didn't move. Nothing moved except the birds outside. They could not see the birds, but they could hear them. The sun from the window fell across Anna's face. They sat like this for a long while and didn't say a thing.

—

Salvador said there were two places
he wanted to take her, if she had time. Anna said she did. They climbed into his gray sedan. Images of the Virgin Mary and Che Guevara hung from his rearview mirror. The virgin and the outlaw. He touched them both before turning the ignition. They drove into the hills.

“We grew up poor. Chicken poor.
Campo
poor, which is more hopeless than American poor.”

“But now—”

“Slowly, my dad climbs up. I was the first in the family to go to university. My parents think being an artist is a waste of my education. They don't believe I can make a living. They think I deal drugs.”

“Do you?”

“Only on weekends.” He smiled. “I try to live economically, but it's hard. I was always greedy as a boy. I still fight this. Wanting things.”

“Wanting what?”

“Art. Clothing. Food. I don't know. It's not the things. It's the safety of things.”

“But your family was happy . . .”

“Not TV-happy, but yes. We were loved. We felt part of something—this big family. Cousins. Aunts. Not lonely or alone. Not hungry.”

When Anna said nothing, he asked, “Why? You were lonely?”

“A bit,” Anna said. “But we had a lot of things.”

—

Ten minutes later,
Salvador pulled in front of a stucco church. It was hot outside, but cool as they entered. They sat in a middle pew. He pointed to a fresco, a blurred image of a man's face, round as a basketball and no more expressive. A wool scarf wrapped around his head, like a cartoon character with a toothache. His mouth was smudged.

“Do you like it?”

Anna shrugged. “It's pretty rough. Folk art? It doesn't match the formality of the church.” A pair of giggling teenagers snapped photos in front of the artwork. A boy scratched his armpits.

Salvador whispered, “This painting of Jesus was made back in the thirties. An art professor gave it to the church.” Salvador pulled a
postcard from his pocket. A classic rendering of Christ. Gentle expression. Crown of thorns. The stucco had chipped in places, leaving ragged patches of white. “This is how it used to look.” Anna compared the postcard and the painting. No resemblance.

“What happened?”

“An old woman restored it.”

“She's an artist?”

“A believer.”

Anna muffled a laugh. “Wow. That's the worst restoration job I've ever seen. Even I could do better.”

“That's what people call it.
The worst restoration job ever.
Un fracaso.
The old woman says the priest gave her permission. He denies it. They are bringing in experts to see if it can be saved. The piece is an Ecce Homo. Behold the man. But people now call it Ecce Mono. Behold the monkey.”

Anna laughed out loud.

“Art disappears from churches all the time,” Salvador said. “Thieves cut paintings from the frame. They steal statues. They even rob the collection box. Drug lords have figured out there is money in antiquities. The government doesn't pay enough for guards or security. You have to care for art . . .” He paused, searching for a word. “What is the boy who watches the sheep?”

“Shepherd?”

“We need more shepherds.”

Anna blushed. He couldn't know about the death mask and she was bursting to tell him. To confess. Here, in church, before the Jesus monkey.

“Every once in a while, there is good news,” he went on. “A few years ago, the widow of an American dentist gave back eight thousand
objects to the Mexican government. For years, her husband bought pre-Columbian art on the black market. Some pieces had been removed with a power saw. He repaired them with dentist glue.”

Salvador laughed unhappily.

“We destroy so many things with our touching.” He lifted his hand, changed his mind, put it back in his lap. “Starting with the things we love most.”

—

They drove to another village
and parked, walked past olive trees, trash bins, a giant Coke sign urging
TOMA LO BUENO
. Salvador led her to a circular clearing surrounded by a hip-high stone wall. An amphitheater. No, an old bullring. The city below them looked like a Christmas card, nestled and calm. No firecrackers. No dogs. No smoke. Salvador produced a blanket, a bottle of red wine, and cheese.

“This is the most beautiful place I know in Oaxaca. Remember you asked me? When I was a boy,
novilleros
practiced here. I tried to build my own museum. I collected arrowheads and feathers and arranged them. One time, I tried to make Enrique pay to see them, but he hit me and stole whatever he liked. I worried if I didn't collect things, they would be lost. I didn't want to step on the ground and kill an ant or a flower. Then my family took a trip to Monterrey, three days in the car. When I saw how big the desert was, I cried. What difference could I make in a place so big?” He shrugged, offered Anna some cheese. “Now boys bring their girlfriends here to . . .” He twirled his hand.

“That's why we're here.” Anna twirled her hand.

He gave a happy shrug.
“Depende.”

The sun was going down. Ragged orange patches of light scarred the
sky. The wine warmed Anna's insides. Feeling playful, she pulled Salvador to his feet, turned her fingers into horns, pawed the ground with her hooves. The torero pinched his arrogant nose, shook his red cape. The brave bull charged and the torero spun the animal, carving veronicas in the dust. His shirt buttons twinkled like the sequins of a
traje de luces
. Together they danced before the falling sun, as the crowd thundered, as the women tossed roses, as the band oompahed, as the queen smiled behind her black fan, beneath her lace mantilla. The matador could not harm the brave animal. He lowered her to the ground, wiped the dust from her brow, and laid his head on the animal's heaving chest. A man in love with a woman calls her
mi cielo
. My heaven. My sky. In that moment, the sky looked like heaven, and heaven seemed close.