Latitude Zero (19 page)

35

“¡AY, PELUDO!
¿Qué hicistes? ¿Pipi aquí?
¿
Qué bestia!”

I awakened to Lucia Ruiz’s shrill voice. I rubbed my eyes and opened the shutters. I peered out into the open-air patio, now awash in sunlight. Lucia was berating the poodle, who had just peed all over the floor and was now munching on that white stuffed bear Amparo had given me. Lucia yanked the bear from the dog’s jaws and muttered something, in Spanish, about how the crazy dog was always chewing everything in sight.

Amparo rushed in, dodging the puddle.
“¡Tessa no está aquí!”

For a moment I enjoyed the drama as she explained to her mom—and then to Hugo and Andreas, who came into the courtyard—that I wasn’t in bed. It was almost like being a ghost.

When I realized the Ruizes were seriously freaking out, though, I burst out of the room.

“Buenos días,”
I said shyly, suddenly aware that I was the only one not yet fully dressed. They were all staring at my right arm. The bandage was off, but a big angry scab—a memento of Chain Reaction—remained.

Since I was still holding the blanket I’d found on the patio last night, I covered my arm with it, and my thin nightgown, and explained how I’d wound up in that bedroom by taking a wrong turn on a nighttime walk through the house.

Everyone laughed, and Hugo told me it was the room of their former maid.

“We haven’t found a replacement as good as her,” Lucia added. “This is why the house is not so clean. I apologize.”

Not clean? It was spotless! I took a step backward and looked at this family, especially Amparo, through new eyes. These people had had a live-in maid. Their life seemed so different from that of the people by the blockade we’d passed by last night.

“I like the room,” I admitted. “Could I stay in here?”

“This room?” Lucia’s eyebrows shot up. “
Ay, no, mi hija
. This room is not so comfortable, not for you. Besides, Amparo would be lonesome.”

Amparo looked hurt. “My room—
our
room—is so much nicer than this one, Tessa.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. Your room is great.”

She beamed. “Thanks. I have to show you all my photo albums, and my pageant trophies. Will you help me with a speech? I have to write a new one for Miss Tierra Ecuador.”

“Who’s she?”

“Not a
she
. A
what.
It’s the Miss Earth Ecuador pageant.” Amparo’s eyes lit up as she spoke. “This contest, it combines beauty with awareness of environmental concerns. I thought because you worked in television, you would be the perfect person to help me. Maybe today?”

“I’d love to help.” I smiled back, suddenly aching for Kylie and Sarita—and panicking, in the next moment, about getting to Mari. “But today I have to see my friend from back home. She’s working with Vuelta, too.”

“Another day, we would love to include her,” said Lucia. “But it is Saturday, and Hugo is not working, so we have our
actividades familiares
already planned.”

Family activities. I managed a weak smile. I was seventeen. Couldn’t I have any say in my schedule? I hadn’t felt so programmed since kindergarten.

After breakfast, I checked email again. Nothing new except a note from my mom.
(We’re so proud of you! Work hard, wear sunscreen, have fun!)
I’d just have to get the Ruizes to route our
actividades
through Mari’s neighborhood and make an excuse to go see her.

I pulled out the map from my Vuelta welcome packet and located the address of her cousin’s apartment, in a neighborhood called La Mariscal, more commonly known as La Zona. That was easy enough to remember.

/////

LATER THAT
morning, Hugo backed the car down the driveway with the whole family and me inside. He stopped at the booth by the gate and introduced me to Paolo, the day shift guard.

“Buenos días, señorita,”
he said with a friendly grin, touching his beret and displaying silver-capped teeth with his smile.

“So the guards will just let me in if I knock at the booth?” I asked my host parents as we continued down the driveway.

“Let you in? Of course. But from where?”

“I thought after our sightseeing you could drop me off at my friend Mari’s place. I can find my way back here.”

“Mari. This is the girl who lives alone? In an apartment?”

“Yeah. Her cousin’s place. It’s in some area called La Zona—”

“La Zona!” Amparo exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “
Mami
, I want to go with Tessa. Can I?”

“Absolutely not. It’s a nightclub scene.”

“Sounds fun,” I said. My mind flashed to my red sundress, folded neatly in my suitcase. Sarita had taken me shopping in Harvard Square the day before I traveled. She’d ordered me to buy the dress and find a hot guy to dance with. “One salsa,” she’d commanded. “To shake Jake out of your head. And Juan Carlos, too, while you’re at it.”

“It is not fun,” Lucia said sharply. “It’s the most dangerous section of Quito. It’s full of gringo tourists—sorry,” she added to me. “Not like you. People who are out looking for trouble.”

“But I’m seventeen,” I reminded them. “My parents let me go to some dicey areas in Boston. I think with some common sense I’ll be fine. Besides, it can’t be that bad if Mari is staying there.” I sounded confident, but I quaked inside. If La Zona was really such a hotbed for criminals, wouldn’t that be where Darwin and his crew were most likely to hang out?

Lucia jabbed a bobby pin into her sleek bun. “This is the problem in your country,” she said. “Too many kids are raising themselves. Parents are not conveying good values. In my opinion, this is why your country has so much violence.”

I glanced out the window behind us as we drove away. Paolo tipped his beret at me and continued polishing his gun.

36

I SAW
most of Quito that day through the tinted window of the car. Insulated. We drove around the modern section, with its sleek hotels and office buildings, its plazas with fountains and red poinsettia trees, growing wild and unpruned, like little explosions of Christmas. Rogue palm trees sprouted up in plazas and boulevards, hardy in the mountain air, and reminders that the Amazon Basin—the jungle—wasn’t so far away after all. I loved the wild, random, sprawling feel. Boston and Cambridge seemed so planned, so pruned, in comparison. I wished I could just run outside and get lost in the maze of streets here.

But I was safest with the Ruiz family, in the car. The whole time, I kept one eye on the sights and one eye peeled for Darwin, Pizarro, and Balboa. I even picked up a disguise at a crafts fair we visited: a white blouse with embroidery from an
indígena
, which I immediately slipped on over my T-shirt. A wool shoulder bag with llamas marching across it and a wool hat with ear flaps completed the full-on Ecuadorian tourist look. I tucked my hair up inside it, and pulled the hat low over my head.

“Are you cold?” Lucia guessed with a sympathetic smile. “They call this the City of Eternal Spring, but tourists are surprised by the altitude. The mornings can be quite chilly.”

“A little. We are pretty high up, aren’t we? The air feels so thin.”

Hugo pressed two bottles of water into my hands and slipped another one into my new Ecuadorian tote bag. “Drink plenty of this,” he advised. “Altitude sickness can sneak up on you these first few days. You must be on the alert for it.”

I opened a bottle and drank, wishing altitude sickness wasn’t the only thing I had to be on the alert for.

Leaving the crafts market, I tried to be a dutiful host daughter and admire the sights they were pointing out. I had to admit, Quito was stunning in its rough beauty. The hills that embraced the city were the lushest green. The clouds hung low, as if dropped from the sky. The buildings rose unevenly and were painted in an array of colors, a mix of concrete, stucco, and glass. High on a hill overlooking the historic district stood a metal statue of a woman that reminded me of the Statue of Liberty. But this statue had a halo and angel wings. She held up one arm in a graceful gesture, as if blessing the entire city at her feet.

“That’s el Panecillo,” said Amparo, pointing to the statue. “Or the Virgin of Quito. She is our city’s madonna.”

“She is made of seven thousand pieces of aluminum,” Andreas chimed in.

“Wow, it’s gorgeous.” A far cry from Amber’s bike sculptures. “I bet the view’s amazing from that hill.” I startled as a black Honda Civic drove by. I shielded my eyes from it and gazed into the distance. “Can you walk up?”
Can we go there now?
Someone was parking the Honda Civic. It looked just like the car Darwin had driven away from the airport. I pulled my hat lower.

“Yes,” said Andreas.

“No,”
said my host parents at the same time. “There have been muggings at El Panecillo,” Lucia added. “It isn’t safe to hike there. But she is beautiful from afar, isn’t she?”

A family of four got of the car and went to a
ceviche
restaurant. Not Darwin. I breathed easier. But I kept looking behind me and all around me, like someone in a bicycle race, expecting Darwin or Pizarro or Balboa to pop up anytime, anyplace.

/////

BY LUNCHTIME,
all the clouds had burned off, revealing the rolling green hills that embraced the city and the snowcapped volcanoes beyond. Everyone was hungry. I found a restaurant on a map that was right by La Zona, but Hugo and Lucia had other plans: a ritzy café on Amazonas near the financial district. In the complete opposite direction.

From our table by the window, Hugo pointed to the highest hill. “That is Guagua Pichincha, our resident volcano,” he said. “And there. Our jewel.” He pointed to a far-off mountain that reminded me of an ice-cream cone. “Cotopaxi.”

I barely looked. Instead, as Hugo and Lucia lectured me about Ecuadorian natural attractions and geology, I stared out the window at a bus stop.

A big poster advertised the Pan-American Cycling Tour, coming to Quito in just five days. It wasn’t a true photograph, but more like some kind of enhanced graphic, or computer-generated art. Gorgeous. The picture showed a peloton of cyclists: the Ecuadorian team, dressed in red, yellow, and blue—thundering down a cobblestoned street. They rode beautiful, fire-red bikes, with the brand-name Diablo spelled out on the frames. They all had intense looks on their faces. Like any cycling team. I gazed at it. I’d forgotten how much cycling inspired me.

From where I sat, I could just make out the text on the poster. Equipo Diablo headed a list of twenty other teams in the PAC Tour—up-and-coming teams from the United States, Latin America, and Europe. Team Cadence-EcuaBar was right beneath them. But Equipo Diablo was spelled out large. It jolted me, seeing Team Cadence-EcuaBar so diminished, and not the headline act. But Equipo Diablo was the home favorite here.

My gaze shifted to a poster beside it, which was equally stunning. This one advertised the city’s weeklong cycling expo. The guy featured in this picture—a real photo, not an artistic rendering—wore a red jumpsuit and a red motorcycle helmet. But he was on a bike. He and that bike were flying down a long stone staircase, both wheels off the road, cobblestones beneath. So this must be urban downhill racing. I shivered. It looked terrifying, just from the picture.

Then I saw, in blazing letters below the soaring bike:

¡Venga a ver el último viaje del Ratón!

El Ratón? I inched close to the window and looked closely at the photo. It was hard to see the face with that helmet on. But that had to be Juan Carlos’s best friend. How many well-known cyclists named el Ratón could there be?

And why was this his
last
ride?

The Ruizes, having figured out I wasn’t listening, followed my gaze to the posters.

“Ah! El Ratón! He is famous!” said Andreas.

“Why do they call him ‘the mouse’?” I asked him.

“Because he is small and quick and impossible to catch. He is the best downhill racer in Quito. But he has been training for road racing. This is why he appears in both posters.”

I squinted at the first poster. Sure enough, the cyclist leading the Equipo Diablo peloton was el Ratón. Even though the image was artistically enhanced, it was the same guy I’d seen with Juan Carlos, in photos, and in the TV interview I’d watched online last night. He had high cheekbones and a distinctive cleft chin. Though he wasn’t the cycling poster boy that Juan Carlos had been—I couldn’t picture his face on a billboard—he had rugged good looks, like Quito itself. The kind of face you’d look at twice and find something in to admire.

Something else didn’t make sense. “If he’s in this downhill cycling expo in a few days, but Equipo Diablo is in Venezuela right now, how can he race both events?” I asked Andreas, since he seemed to know the most about cycling.

“El Ratón is ending his downhill career this week,” Andreas explained. “The five-day stage race in Quito this weekend marks his debut with Equipo Diablo.”

“It seems a little optimistic, don’t you think? Putting him in front of the peloton when he’s never ridden with the team before?”

“Oh, but he’s very good,” said Hugo. “Andreas and I have been following his career. El Ratón has trained with the Vuelta racing club for two years. Cycling team scouts from Ecuador, Colombia, even
los Estados Unidos
, have been saying he is
el próximo!
”

“The next what?”

“The next el Cóndor.”

Lucia made a dismissive gesture that made her bracelets jangle. “He is good but not the best. It is strange to me that he got this position so suddenly, when other cyclists have worked longer for the honor. Then again, it’s not really about talent, is it? I think they put him in that picture only because of the media.”

I sat forward. “What’s the media here saying about el Ratón?”

“There was a lot of, what is the word, hype?” said Lucia. “Because el Cóndor was coming home for the PAC Tour.”

“The big race between two best friends, on rival teams, was going to be the biggest sporting event Ecuador has seen since Jefferson Pérez won the Olympic gold,” said Hugo.

I understood how the media could shape a story. That wasn’t necessarily bad. Especially if it got more people interested in watching a sport like pro cycling.

“Who’d they want to win? El Cóndor or el Ratón?” I asked.

“El Ratón, of course,” said Andreas.

“El Cóndor,” said Amparo at the same time. “No. Not everyone here supports el Ratón,” Amparo corrected. “I wanted el Cóndor to win.”

“Only because he is
muy caliente
,” teased Andreas. He kissed the air.

Amparo swatted his arm. “That is not why. And Mami wanted el Cóndor to win, too.”

I looked at Lucia. “Really? How come?”

Lucia pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. She chose her words with care. “He is—he was—a brave young man,” she said. “Brave to go to another country, so young. Very hardworking, too. I felt he represented us Ecuadorians, and he gave us a sense of pride and possibility. We do not have so many sports heroes here. And this downhill racing business”—she made that dismissive gesture again—“it is an exciting sport. But road racing can take an Ecuadorian athlete to Colombia, to the U.S., to Europe . . . to the biggest races in the world.”

Hugo shrugged. “In your country, and in Europe,” he said, “the sport is about the characters, the big personalities. In Ecuador, cycling has been more about teams than individuals. This is changing now. I think because of the success Juan Carlos has had in your country. Here, we used to be happy if any team placed well in an international event. It was good for our country, psychologically. Now, though, people are interested in these two big names, in individuals. The Great Bird versus the Mouse. Even betting on their racing results.” He shook his head. “Before Juan Carlos died, all this talk of the PAC Tour homecoming—it was a circus.”

Lucia clapped her hands together. “Enough talk about this bicycle tragedy. It is too sad for lunchtime conversation. Let us talk of happy things. Tessa, what do you think of Ecuadorian food so far?”

Lucia proceeded to explain the various dishes. Then Hugo pointed out some banks as we continued eating. The Ruizes kept wanting me to look up, up, up—at the sky, at the statues, at the buildings, the hills. But my eyes kept drifting down, to images of very different lives.

Across from the bus stop outside, I saw women, maybe my mother’s age, almost bent double as they lugged burlap sacks of potatoes, cabbages, even whole dead chickens. I saw men and women in ragged ponchos setting up pyramids of produce to sell—in the median of the street—while their babies toddled toward the street and cars brushed by within inches. I saw lottery ticket hawkers, men carrying huge bags of soccer balls, umbrellas, and pink toilet paper rolls, all for sale.

And I saw children. Everywhere, children in need of baths, hairbrushes, meals. They picked lice out of one another’s hair while sitting on the sidewalk. They chased businessmen with shoeshine kits, crying out,
“¡Señor!
¿Limpianos?”
They came into the restaurant to sell red roses and gum, calling
“¡Compre! ¡Compre!”
and weary waiters shooed them away. Meanwhile, all these well-off Ecuadorians and foreign tourists chatted away, oblivious. The Ruizes, too.

What had Juan Carlos’s life been like here? Where had he fit in? What life was he pedaling away from when he took his chances and joined an American team?

I’d heard he was from humble origins, his father a glass factory worker. Would Juan Carlos have done anything to get away from the hardscrabble life here in Quito?

Like get involved with a drug cartel? Or fail in a desperate attempt to break away from one? What had Juan Carlos kept close to his chest, besides that crucifix necklace?

/////

“
HOLA
. SANTIAGO?
It’s me. Tessa.” I spoke in a hushed voice on the phone that evening, on the extension in the ex-maid’s room. I needed a moment of privacy—hard to find—and a break from looking at Amparo’s fourteen pageant photo albums. I also desperately needed help. I’d never made it to Mari’s neighborhood; the Ruizes whisked me from one
actividad
to another all day, and were adamant about steering clear of La Zona.

“Tessa!” Santiago exclaimed, sounding pleased.
“¿Qué tal?”

“Not much. Am I interrupting you from anything?” I asked.

“I have just been studying the present perfect progressive tense,” Santiago said, speaking slowly and precisely. “How is it? I have been using it correctly?”

“
Perfecto.
And I’m sorry to interrupt your studying, but—”

“It is a happy interruption. It is nice to hear your voice. I have been thinking about you.”

I smiled into the phone, surprised at the warm feeling his words brought to me. I’d felt cold, almost numb, since Chain Reaction. My small reaction to Santiago’s compliment reminded me that somewhere inside me, I still had emotions. I still lived. “Really?” I said, almost shyly.

“Present perfect progressive tense. How did I do?”

I hesitated, then managed to laugh. I didn’t know why I’d assumed that his words carried some deeper meaning. Santiago was just a friendly guy. Just practicing his
verbos
. He was probably the least mysterious person I’d met in recent weeks.

“I have a huge favor to ask you,” I went on. “Can you help me to contact my friend Mari? I can’t reach her, and I’m getting worried.”

“I do not know this Mari,” said Santiago. “You are sure she is with Vuelta?”

“I’m positive. Please, can you check? Her full name is Marisol Vargas.”

“I will ask to my father right now how you can reach her.
Momentito
.”

I heard faint conversation in Spanish. Then Santiago returned.

“My father says she is here in Quito. She arrived on schedule.”

I let out a long breath. So she was here in the city.