Kilometer 99 (10 page)

I nod. Everything Ben says makes sense. But it's like one of those riddles where you have to push one person in front of a bus in order to save all the passengers: The act in itself is simply too unpalatable.

“Should we have stopped him today?” Ben spears a tiny piece of cured fish with the toothpick and slips it into his mouth. “Should we have said something before they signed those papers?”

It's our first stab at the elephant in the room.

“I don't know,” I say. “I keep telling myself that it's not about Pelo so much as Don Miguel. We don't want to mess with his life, right?”

“Sure,” Ben says. “But is he better off heading to the States to sweep floors? Is that worth more than his land?”

I pick at the label on my bottle and try to take the long view on Pelo's land deal. Is he any different from the other gringo opportunists who've been coming here for years? They say Sir Francis Drake founded the port of La Libertad, on his way to California. Surely, he came in search of gold and plunder. Who are Ben and I to stop this long tradition?

On the other hand, I can't help but think of Hawaiian history. An uncle on my mother's side has ties to the sovereignty movement—a subject that's become as taboo in my presence as the details of my mother's final years. He often describes island lands as “stolen” by haole missionaries and entrepreneurs. In fact, most of those land deals happened like the one we watched today—with cryptic documents, a stack of money, and a desperate, misled seller. They weren't fair or honest, but they were
legal,
in the strict sense of the word. That was all that they were. Would I have put my foot down against the generals and the sugar barons had I been alive a hundred years ago?

“I hope that swell gets here soon,” Ben says.

“If it exists at all,” I add.

*   *   *

Back at the hotel, Pelochucho sits in that same rebar and rubber band easy chair outside his room. “There you are!” He holds a big Regia bottle between his knees. “I didn't know what happened to you guys.”

“We went to get a beer,” Ben says. “You hungry? We could all order dinner.”

“Actually, I need you to do something for me.”

“What's that?” Suspicion cuts through my voice.

Pelochucho stands up and reaches deep into the cargo pocket of his board shorts. “I need a little cholly.”

“A little what?” I ask.

Ben looks over his shoulder.

“Cholly. A little white, a little blow. Some fucking cocaine, all right?”

“So get Peseta to do that!” I'm outraged.

“I don't want Peseta to do it. I'm paying you guys to do stuff for me. Paying you well, actually.”

Ben is unruffled. He stands up and takes the money from Pelo's hand. “You know they sell it in those newsprint packets here, right? They're usually a little more than a gram.”

“Is that enough to get me two?” Pelochucho asks.

Ben nods. “Should be.”

Still furious, I keep silent. Ben is streetwise; he'll be okay. More than anything, this is insulting. I suspect Pelo—consciously or not—set up this errand as petty revenge for my criticism of his hotel plan.

“I'll be right back,” Ben says. “Malia, could you see what Kristy has for food? Maybe order me something?”

He kisses me good-bye, then leaves the hotel.

I find Kristy in the kitchen and ask her about dinner. She has some ripe plantains and hard cheese. I order plates of both, along with beans. She seems in good spirits tonight.

Pelochucho materializes over my shoulder. “
Hola,
Kristy.”

I take a step back.

He places his empty Regia on the counter, then walks into the kitchen and takes two more bottles out the refrigerator. “
Dos más, mi amor.
”

Kristy blushes at the pet name.

“Cheers.” Pelo thrusts one of the bottles into my hand. I'd not realized it was meant for me. “Shall we sit?” He gestures at a table in the dining room.

The beer is cold and tasty. Kristy chops plantains and heats oil a few meters away.

“I appreciate you guys helping me out today,” Pelochucho says, “and sticking around to do it. Seriously.”

“Pelo,” I say. “All that stuff about the hillside and your hotel plans—I didn't say it to be a bitch. It's a big deal.”

“I know.” He sighs and takes a gulp. “I'd hoped this project would be quick and easy. I've got a lot of capital tied up in another Seattle deal right now. I'll have to go more slowly, invest more dough.”

“I'm not sure it's about that,” I say. “It's not so much a money thing as a land thing.”

He turns to me, incredulous. “There's got to be a way to make it work, right? If you throw enough cash at it?”

His question reminds me of a documentary I saw years ago, about a bunch of rich people trying to climb Mount Everest, and what a disaster it turned out to be for them and all the Sherpa guides they'd hired.

“Pelo, don't take this the wrong way, but just because you've got money, that doesn't mean you get to surf every wave, or climb every mountain.”

He takes a long sip of his beer but keeps his eyes locked on mine. “You're going to sit here and tell me that—with ample time and materials—you couldn't figure out a way to build on that spot? That it's totally impossible?” He shakes his head. “Some engineer,” he mutters, then goes for another sip.

I shrug. An angry, competitive itch creeps up my spine. My brain spins in a direction it hasn't gone for weeks. “If it
had
to be done, it would take at least two retaining walls on that hillside, with surface and subsurface drains.” Blueprints take shape in my mind's eye. The image of that fatal, preventable landslide in Santa Tecla still looms in a neglected part of my memory. I feel a bit drunk with the possibilities. “The building itself would need footings poured directly onto the bedrock, however deep that is. And even though it's expensive here, you'd have to frame it all with wood.”

Pelochucho grins and slaps his hands together. “Now we're talking!”

“The interesting thing about a large building right there is the roof. You'd want to catch every drop of rain, to keep it from washing away the hillside. If you hooked your gutters up to a big-enough cistern, you'd have all your water needs taken care of. You might have more than enough.”

“We can fill the pool!” Pelo says.

“I was thinking of offering some to your new neighbors, actually.”

“Sure,” he says. “That's cool, too.”

“After the retaining walls and the pilings, you'd want to start planting that hillside.” I take a sip of beer. “It'd be best to do some windbreaks and live barriers right away, then bring in saplings. Stuff with complex root systems that'll hold the hillside together, absorb all the excess water. You might even get some fruit.”

“You should stick around, Chinita!” Pelo says. “Help me out with this.”

“No thanks.” I shake my head. “That's the best way to do it, but I still think it's a bad idea. Just move the damn building to the other side of the ridge.”

His mouth twists up, as if he's tasting something sour. Before he can respond, Ben walks in and joins us.

“Here you go.” Ben drops two thin newspaper envelopes on the table. “It was cheaper than I thought. You've got some change coming.”

“Keep it,” Pelochucho says. He grabs the packets off the table, as if ashamed, and shoves them into his shorts. His eyes linger on Kristy, who plates up my meal.

“Nice one, Chuck Norris. Thanks.” Pelo stands. “Stop by after dinner if you want to party.” He seems to be inviting Ben and not me.

Pelo takes the beer and the coke off to his room. Kristy drops heaping plates in front of Ben and me, a stack of retoasted tortillas and a dish of salt in the center of the table. We ask for glasses and share the Regia.

The food is delicious. The plantains are sweet and crisp, a perfect counterpoint to the salty cheese and liquefied beans. Like so many Salvadoran suppers, it is a meal meant to be eaten without utensils, with only the torn pieces of corn tortillas. It could've been eaten without teeth.

As usual, I finish before Ben. He grins at me as I mop the last bit of the beans off the plate.

“Don't take this the wrong way, Malia.” Ben puts a fist in front of his mouth. “But have you ever been checked out for a tapeworm?”

I laugh. “If that's what I have, then I've had it all my life.” I pop the final bite into my mouth.

“Was your mom skinny?” Ben asks.

I swallow. “She is in most of the pictures, and the couple times I saw her in the flesh.” Ben knows this isn't a subject I'm comfortable with. “Let's hope that's all I inherited from her.”

We ask Kristy to start us a new tab, and to put this dinner on it.

I follow Ben out of the dining room. Without discussing it, he passes by the expensive wing and knocks on Pelo's door.

“Who is it?”

“It's us,” Ben says.

The door swings open.

“Come on in,” Pelochucho says. “You want some blow?” A rolled-up American bill hangs between his first two fingers like a cigarette.

Pelo has taken the one piece of art off the wall: a framed picture of a flying dove with flowing Spanish script that reads.
If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, it never was.
He's cut his cocaine on the glass of the frame. The powder forms a few rough lines. A credit card covers the dove's head. I strain my eyes to read Pelo's real name but can't quite make it out.

“No thanks,” Ben says. “I'm beat. Just wanted to say good night. Any plans for tomorrow? Looks like you'll be sleeping in.”

Pelo lets out a small laugh, then pulls a chair up to the table with the picture. “I want to get some waves,” he says. “This flat shit is getting old.” He leans over the dove and snorts up one thick white line.

“All right, then,” Ben says. “See you in the morning.”

“Close that on the way out, would you?”

I've had a long day, and spent hours in the sun. It comes as a huge relief that Ben has no interest in staying up and doing lines with Pelo. We go to bed with tired eyes and full stomachs. I hope we'll wake up to this rumored swell, not so much for the surf, but so Ben and I can sooner sever ties with Pelochucho and be on our way.

 

12

A year and a half ago, I followed Ben out the gate of La Posada. We wore swimsuits and sandals, surfboards under our arms. Ben carried a grocery sack with his tobacco, a lighter, and a couple of
refrescos
—sugary Day-Glo drinks sold in clear plastic Baggies.

“Where are we going?” I asked. This was only my second or third stay in La Libertad. I didn't understand why we weren't sticking around to surf the point.

“A little spot up the coast.” Ben kept walking.

In the west end of town, we passed local women with buckets of masa atop their heads, coming from the mill. We crossed the small bridge that seemed to form an unofficial city limit. At the far side of it, Ben stopped walking.

“Do you have bus fare?” I asked.

“No need.” With his surfboard and grocery bag in one arm, Ben stuck his other hand out into the road, thumb extended.

I took a couple of steps off into the shoulder. Several cars passed without stopping or slowing down. For a few minutes, there was no traffic. Then another wave of vehicles. Again, nobody paid us any mind.

“Here.” I held my board out in Ben's direction. “Take this for a second.”

Ben took my board with his free hand and switched places with me.

Suddenly self-conscious in board shorts and a bikini top, I crossed my arms over my chest and waited while a rattling pickup full of bananas rolled by. Next a crowded sedan passed. I began to wonder what I'd been thinking—offering to handle this. Finally, I spied a newish double-cab pickup coming our way, with only a driver aboard, and what looked like a logo on the door.

I took a step closer to the road, stood up straight, stuck my thumb out far, and put my other hand on my hip. My midriff felt long and exposed, like something hanging from a hook. The driver and I made eye contact; his gaze drifted downward as he gave me the once-over. The truck pulled off a few yards ahead of us. Ben ran out from the shoulder and we both jogged for it. I climbed into the bed and took the boards from Ben one by one. He hopped in, then tapped twice on the top of the cab.

“Wow,” Ben said once we were rolling. “I guess it pays to be a girl in El Salvador sometimes.”

I rolled my eyes. “Rarely.” But despite the brush-off, I was surprised by my own actions. I'd never done anything quite like that before—flagging down a ride, leveraging my femininity. This was still early in our honeymoon phase. Perhaps I hoped to impress him with my boldness. Perhaps I felt emboldened by his presence.

The drive was beautiful. It still seems to me that the best way to see this country is from the back of a fast-moving pickup. Ben pointed out Sunzal as we wound around the bluffs above it. He told me about the thriving parking space and
palapa
industry along the sandy beach at Majahual—so popular with merrymakers from the capital. From a distance, we saw the private club at Atami, where who knew what kind of secret shorelines were off-limits to nonmembers.

Before long, Ben tapped on the cab and the truck slowed. Along a desolate stretch of the Litoral, we disembarked and thanked the driver.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“It's called Kilometer Ninety-nine, because of that sign.” Ben pointed to a highway marker up the road that read
K 99.
“This way.”

I followed him down a dirt road heading seaward off the highway. It ended on a sandy beach within a protected cove. A rocky point—shorter than Punta Roca, but made up of the same kind of black stones—stretched out before us. There wasn't much swell that day, but we stood and watched a midsize set break. Nobody was around, let alone in the water. Ben buried our flip-flops and his grocery bag under a stack of rocks near the end of the road.