Grave of Hummingbirds (4 page)

“I’m thinking of your patients. Soon there’ll be a line down the mountainside.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“It’s the same every year—some trampled by the bulls,” Alberto said, “a few with alcohol poisoning, and I bet you’ll see a lot of broken teeth. There’s always fighting.”

“Then if I need you, I’ll be glad of your help.”

Today at noon they’d eat together, not work. Alone during the morning, Gregory had prepared a tasty lunch; all he had left to do was heat it up. He’d encourage the boy to speak of girls and his dreams for the future. He would again try to persuade him to apply to the University of Búho to get a degree Gregory wanted to pay for. Alberto had graduated high school just before Nita’s death, and she had once shared with Gregory the boy’s aptitude for learning.

“He’s so eager, Gregory,” she’d said. “You remember. You were like that, too.”

Alberto resisted the idea, preferring to look after his father’s livestock for now. His injuries had healed, but faint scars from his interrogation almost a year ago would always be there, hidden under the embroidered festival shirts and the white cotton-jersey knit polos Gregory had given him.

Between Isabella’s housekeeping visits, he stopped returning the pots and plates to their shelves and racks, so they sprawled across the table and cluttered the surfaces of cabinets. She always chided him for making a mess. Now he shoved and restacked the crockery, selected a pan, and lit the stove.

“Good morning, Dr. Vásquez Moreno.” Alberto stood in the doorway.

“Alberto, come in, come in. Sit down. I’m making us something to eat.”

“You know the mare, Esmeralda?” Alberto made no move toward the table. “They’ve chosen her for the fiesta.”

Gregory’s hand dropped off the pan he was about to lift. The blue flame waited as he leaned on stiff arms and balled fists against the counter.

He should have seen it coming. In a few days, men from Colibrí would sacrifice a horse to capture the fiesta condor. This year, apparently Esmeralda would be that horse.

“I know you love her,” Alberto said. “I’ve seen you stop to give her something from your pockets when you go down to the village.”

“I do,” Gregory said. “I love her, and I can’t help her. If anything, I should have expected it.”

The mare was old and stooped now. When she and Gregory were both younger, he with an adoring wife and Esmeralda still frisky, he had watched the horse run toward him, white mane and tail streaming. She no longer ran, and mane and tail were matted clumps. Her coat was dirty gray and she stood, alone and drooping, in her paddock at the village. Gregory still stopped to greet her from time to time, waiting as she stumbled toward his voice, her nose soft and seeking a treat. She let him drag his fingers through the knots at her neck before he patted her and moved on.

“You could . . . ,” Alberto said. “Buy her? Perhaps?”

Gregory shook his head. His fatigue returned. The aromas of garlic, cumin seeds, and coriander had temporarily lulled his despair. He scraped the chicken into the pan and thrust it onto the flame. “I’ve bought many horses over the years. Old horses like Esmeralda, that are almost finished. They just use another one. And the ones I save, I soon have to put down. I change nothing.”

Alberto’s black eyes watched him. “I know. But Esmeralda is special.”

“I agree, Alberto. I agree. Please, sit down and let’s eat. Forget about the fiesta just long enough for us to enjoy some lunch.”

They sat together over chicken with rice and beans, black olives, and cheese.

Alberto, awkward at first, pushed the meat around, mashed the beans and rice, and rolled the olives from one side of his plate to the other.

“What’s the matter?” Gregory asked. “Don’t you like it?”

Alberto quickly tasted the food. “Oh no, it’s very good.”

“So eat.”

They both ate for a while, in silence.

“What is it, Alberto?”

“I was thinking of the condor. Do you think she was alone?”

“I don’t know. We do what we can.”

“What if she had a little one? It will die.”

“We don’t know.”

“I could look for it.”

“No. If she has a chick, she has a mate. Forget it. It’s dangerous.”

“But . . .”

“No. Promise me. We won’t speak of this again. Finish your food.” Gregory softened his voice. “I have some cherimoyas for us.”

But he doubted the power of custard apples to keep Alberto from the rocky enclaves, high above the canyon.

EIGHT

S
ophie Lawson and her son, Finn, caught a taxi from Búho International Airport into the city. It was cold in the car, an old chocolate-brown Beetle. The flight from San Francisco had taken ten hours, and now, at two in the afternoon, the gray light and chill made it feel as though night were creeping in.

Shantytown hovels lined the road. The driver rested his hand on the stick shift, the hair on his fingers spider dark, his smile constant. At first, he spoke to Sophie and Finn in a modest attempt at English but soon gave up and turned on the radio. He swayed his head to the rolling sounds of a guitar and a husky female voice, and tried to brush Sophie’s thigh as he changed gears. She pressed her knees against the door.

They drove past rows of corrugated-iron-and-adobe houses, with tightly packed soda cans and glass-bottle bottoms set into some of the walls. Wooden doors were painted in sea colors, and laundry fluttered above narrow, unpaved alleys.

Finn sat forward to gaze at a beige bony dog who snuffled in concrete debris. Close by, a lone donkey drooped at the end of a halter. Beyond, yellow star-of-Bethlehem burst through a crack in a wall that looked as though a wrecking ball had pounded it. Women selling clothes sat like fallen apples on the asphalt in a parking lot.

Finn had pressured Sophie into coming here. Now she regretted it, which made no sense—she loved to travel, and her work as a forensic anthropologist had taken her to Africa and Europe. She could find no good reason for this bleak mood. It had to be the weather, or possibly the clear signs of poverty and crushed resistance that led them into the city.

Sophie knew a thing or two about Pájaro. For decades, communists, anarchists, fascists, and drug lords had imposed their will on a beleaguered people until it became impossible to tell one from the other. They all handled opposition in the same way. Now a fledgling democracy, the country still choked in the hands of men whose camouflage simply adapted to each new political landscape.

She had let Finn choose this holiday spot and organize their accommodation, mostly because it was easier to cooperate than argue with him. At seventeen he was easily bored, impatient with her, and rarely at home. Now they had a month off from her teaching job at Berkeley and his ballet, and she hoped in that time to reconnect with him. To pull that off, she’d do just about anything to please him.

“You okay back there?” she asked.

Finn hesitated before he replied, “Yeah, I’m good.”

The driver adjusted his rearview mirror and peered into it, nodding like a bobblehead doll. “He’s okay!” he said over the music.

Sophie shut her eyes, anticipation submerged in waves of trepidation. She and Finn hadn’t been together 24/7 in ages. He was slipping away and changing rapidly. She wouldn’t cling. She wouldn’t fuss. She wouldn’t keep looking for signs of her boy in the man he’d soon become.

Finn had picked some remote village to stay at, where a controversial Independence Day celebration drew the attention of environmental groups and the international media. When he’d come across a documentary on the festival, it was all he could talk about for days. His interest had to do with outrage, not ghoulish fascination, and he wanted to see the ceremony for himself.

Sophie had let her son set them up for a crusade, one that was likely to make both of them miserable, if not get them into trouble. She had managed to wrangle a promise out of him not to be reckless, to mind his manners, and to quietly observe, but her doubt and unease persisted.

Near the city center, old colonial buildings bore the smudge and dirt of neglect. The sidewalks were teeming with people, and the scent of food drifted into the car. The city was famous for its wildflower bread, and Sophie caught the faint aromas of garlic, rosemary, and rich beef stew.

“Are you hungry?” she asked Finn.

“Starving.”

There were shadows under his eyes and probably hers, too. Neither of them had slept on the plane, and they had barely spoken. For twelve hours he’d watched movies while she’d tried to shake off a growing sense of foreboding, flipping through the in-flight magazine, travel brochures, and a novel she could remember nothing about.

One thing that didn’t escape her notice was the effect women had on Finn, and he on them. The flight attendant had looked only at him, even when asking Sophie how she wanted her Scotch.

The taxi dropped them off at a once-opulent hotel with twisted columns and stone walls. Finn had found it online, advertised as an inexpensive baroque masterpiece.

The woman at the front desk spoke Spanish into a cell phone. Although she looked up as Sophie and Finn came through the double oak doors, she turned her back and carried on her conversation. Sophie heard the woman’s voice catch a few times, rise in pitch, fall to a scratchy whisper, and rise again. Finn walked over to the wall and studied a fresco of a red unicorn, its horn wrapped in vines and outsize leaves. He beckoned to Sophie.

“She’s talking about someone called Alejandro,” he said. “I think he was murdered.”

Shocked, Sophie watched the woman attempt to wipe off the mascara under her eyes.

“Lo siento,”
she called to them at last.

Finn returned to the desk and Sophie followed.

“Can I help you?” She drew a shaky breath and brightened for Finn.

Sophie thought she looked a little predatory—as though Finn reminded her that she, at least, was very much alive.

“Yes, we made a reservation for
Lawson
. That’s
L
. . .
A
. . . are you all right?” Sophie asked.

“I will be all right,” the woman said to Finn. “Thank you for asking.”

They waited.

She jerked the mouse around and stared fixedly at the screen of an old computer. “You’re in room two-one-one,” she said with a deep sniff, “on the second floor.” She wore a frilly forest-green silk blouse and a tight black skirt. Two tiny owls, perched on her silver hoop earrings, gently butted her neck whenever she moved her head. A makeshift bun, precariously secured at the top of her head, looked as though it was about to tumble. She was only a few years older than Finn.

He stared at her breasts, pushed up and together by a black bra, its lace edges peeping through the deep vee of her shirt.

“Is there anything we can do? For you, I mean?” Sophie asked. She distracted Finn with an elbow to his ribs.

The woman shook her head and handed them a key that might open a vault or dungeon. She pointed wordlessly at a metal spiral staircase that led up to an elevator with a doorknob and an accordion gate.

Sophie and Finn wedged themselves and their backpacks into the small space, Finn facing the wall. The elevator smelled of rusty nails. It groaned and heaved as it took them to the second floor.

“We’ll take the stairs next time,” Finn said.

“Good idea,” Sophie murmured. “Let’s hope we live that long.”

With a double bounce they arrived, squeezed out, and moved along the corridor. Their room was the color of ripe pumpkin, with blue accents and running leaf patterns on its cornices. A high beam of sunlight shone on particles of dust that floated above a fringed rug.

A ball-and-claw-foot tub sat in the middle of the bathroom, its drain rusted. When Sophie turned on the tap, spurting pipes coughed and sprayed, and long seconds passed before the water ran clean.

“Let’s go out, get something to eat,” she called to Finn, who’d fallen onto one of the beds. The quilt bunched under his sneakers, and she had to stop herself from scolding him when she came back into the room.

By three in the afternoon, the day had turned hazy and wet. A fine drizzle fell on the streets and sidewalks. Along a cobblestone path near the hotel, they found a small restaurant still serving lunch. Silver flatware and linen napkins lay on the tables, and bright blankets draped the chairs. Only four tables were occupied.

“What do you think?” Sophie asked.

“Looks fine.”

Finn had discovered at the hotel that he could text as easily as if he were at home, and she knew, once he placed his phone on his side plate, there’d be no conversation over lunch. Sure enough, it buzzed and lit up, and he read it, quietly laughing.

Sophie ordered a carafe of hot cinnamon wine, and Finn decided to try the ceviche, if he could have it without fish. A blushing server, with Audrey Hepburn eyeliner winging across her lids, hovered like a pollen-crazed butterfly. She brought him palm hearts marinated in lime and chili peppers, served with chunks of toasted corn and avocado on beds of showy lettuce.

Sophie ate rotisserie chicken prepared in a wood oven and set before her on a woven coaster. The skin was crisp and the meat was tender and moist; the faint taste of citrus and fennel lingered. Alongside the chicken sat medallions of roasted sweet potatoes and slim green beans sautéed in garlic and butter.

Halfway through the meal, Sophie took a break and wiped her fingers with a napkin. Lifting her wineglass, she stared at Finn over the rim and said, “We should talk. You know, to each other. Remember how?”

“I thought you hated sarcasm,” he said through a mouthful of lettuce.

“Only when it’s coming from you.” Her attempt at humor fell flat and she could feel, if not see, his eyes roll.

“I’m not ready to think about college,” he said.

“Who said anything about college? What about school?”

“What about it? I’m not going back.”

“I think you mean you
can’t
go back.”

Toward the end of his sophomore year, Finn was caught drawing pictures of his Spanish teacher, Senora Rojas, on her back with her toes in the air. The principal couldn’t very well expel him for sketching nudes, but he could decline to accommodate Finn’s ballet schedule, which he did enthusiastically. Finn found the whole thing a joke and was only too happy to quit school.

Sophie tried to close the door she’d opened. “Actually, let’s not go there,” she said. “Whether you want to dance or not, you have to graduate.”

“I will. I’ll study online. It’s not the end of the world. I won’t have time to go to school anyway.”

“So that’s it. You’ve made your decision.”

“For now. Mom, I don’t get it.” He reached over, picked up her wineglass, and took a sip. “Mmm, this is good. I just got trainee in one of the best companies in the country. Now you want me to do something else?”

“Finn, no, I’m proud of you. But your grades are good and they shouldn’t go to waste.”

“I got a B in history,” he pointed out. “And I didn’t exactly ace Spanish.”

“You got straight As in AP math and science.”

He shrugged. “So when I’m ready, I’ll go work for NASA.”

Sophie chugged her wine and waited for the server to fill their water glasses. “You’re gifted in ways I could only dream of, Finn. You’re good with animals. You could become a vet.”

“Please can we drop it?” He picked up his phone.

“Put down the damn phone.”

He dropped it back on the table and held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, so talk. Tell me what you want me to say.”

“I want you to think past ballet. I’m not saying give it up—God knows I’ve been encouraging it all these years—but one injury, Finn, and it could all be over. It’s precarious.”

“So then I’ll do something else. For now it’s what I want.”

She’d taken him at seven years old to see
The Nutcracker
, and then and there, he’d told her he wanted to be the Snow King. He wanted muscles.

Just a couple of years ago, he was all long bones and skittish features, eager as colts new to the track and unsure when to surge from the gate. His nose with its high, gently curved bridge leaped out ahead, then stopped and waited for his mouth to catch up. Desert-brown, black-flecked eyes were his one feature that remained constant through every growth spurt. Now, at seventeen, the muscles he’d wanted were making their debut.

Sophie watched him eat. “I love you, Finn,” she said.

“I know, and you want what’s best for me.”

“I do, I do, really I do. I don’t want things to be hard for you.”

“Like they were for you.”

“I didn’t say that, but now that you mention it, yes.” People jokingly said she had made him on her own, since he bore no resemblance to the father he’d never met. “Maybe if I’d made better choices, I wouldn’t be stuck with a teaching job that drives me nuts half the time.”

He stopped eating and stared at her. “I thought you loved it.”

She flapped her napkin and put it down, picked up her fork again. “I just mean . . .”

“What you mean is, if I hadn’t shown up, you’d have spent more time in the field.”

She grabbed his hand and held on tight as he tried to pull away. “No. Don’t say that. It’s not what I meant. Going back into the field is something I can still consider.”

Sophie had been part of a team of anthropologists sent by the United Nations to excavate mass graves in Rwanda and Bosnia. In Africa they had matched up skeletal remains found near a small church on the eastern bank of Lake Kivu. Most of the victims were Tutsi women and children who’d sought refuge when the Hutu majority started the 1994 genocide. Based on evidence the team unearthed, the pastor and a member of the presidential guard were prosecuted for the massacre. In Bosnia, Sophie and other scientists had exhumed two of several mass graves along the Serbian border.

She became a forensic anthropologist because she believed that no life should be overlooked. Bones never forgot their secrets, and the process of learning their stories and piecing together their puzzles gave her a sense of relevance that she never got from teaching, even though her students were smart and engaged. Amid musty fossils and the sterile odors of formaldehyde and chlorophyll, she taught them to unravel mysteries, but always felt something was missing from the life she’d settled for.

“So what did you mean?” Finn asked.

She’d meant her choices in men, not that she’d let anyone get under her skin since his father. She didn’t respond.

“I get it. You mean my so-called father.”

Whenever her thoughts turned to the man, Sophie processed them quickly and moved on. She felt no particular loyalty to him, a self-proclaimed guru who’d adopted random tenets of various philosophies and mixed them into a concoction that included commitment phobia. Two years after leaving her to join an ashram in Mumbai, he’d returned to San Francisco, disinclined to be a part of his son’s life.