The Boys (8 page)

“If that Russian bastard ever comes back, he's gonna find the mooring empty or rented to somebody else,” said the supervisor. “They just leave them here for me to deal with. I say: take the boat out to sea and dump it there. Nobody wants them anyway. Do you know how much gas these things use per mile? You should see the warehouse in Palamós . . .”

“Russian mafia,” said Miqui. “Sucks.”

“The whole housing development back there is full of Russians. It looks like Moscow over there. They make these houses that look like bunkers, so they can't be attacked, they gold-plate the swimming pools; it's filled with plainclothes security guards and chauffeured cars with dark windows. One day something bad is gonna happen. They say that half of the government's family members live there.”

Miqui went back through Platja d'Aro with the boat on his truck bed, like a short military parade for those tall buildings facing the sea, standing as if they were reviewing a navy display, a boat with the Spanish flag cutting across the avenue without a crew, marching alone before buildings held up by spines of empty staircases, a ghost boat among ghost windows and balconies, through a ghost town taken over by the wind, a warning to the independentist flag wavers: here the troops will arrive by sea, not like in Vidreres, where they came in planes. He glanced up at the roof of his cab and saw the shotgun, maybe it was sending down good vibes. He had it loaded, screwed up his courage, he mentally drew open the curtain again, and again felt the sun shining through the flammable north wind.

No one in Palamós would mind if he arrived a few hours late, he thought, and girls love these kind of stories—a spic like Cindy wouldn't be able to resist the temptation, she'd be creaming. He could drop off the boat later on. They hadn't firmed up a delivery time, no one would miss him, and if they called, he'd say he got a flat, or make up some other excuse. He exited the highway to Palamós, headed toward Girona, stepped on the gas, and passed Llagostera again on his way to Vidreres—he'd stop in for a coffee at the community social club, he had a surprise for Cindy, a little boat trip.

“Are you nuts?”

“I'll take pictures of you with my phone.”

He would have her get on the boat, a girl like her doesn't weigh a thing, he'd have her sit up in the cockpit, in the white pleather pilot seat, and take her for a spin around the fields of the plain—he'd keep an eye out for police cars, but even if one passed they wouldn't think to look in the boat, it's just silly, it's probably not even against the law. He'd sail her along the highway; he'd have her in his pocket, take her through the forest, along the paths, and it would seem like she was sailing through the Amazon. It would all look familiar, and what woman, what girl, if she really was that young, would say no to having her picture taken on a good-looking boat; maybe they'd find a captain's hat in the cabin, he could tell her to put it on for a photo to post on Facebook. Back home in her country they'd envy her, their eyes as wide as saucers—and who's that man? Whose boat is that? Have you seen Cindy? I want to move to Spain!—half an hour in the cockpit like a queen, with her hair blowing in the wind, at the time of the day when the fields have soaked up the morning's warmth.
An outing like a ship procession bearing Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Star of the Sea, Immaculate Cindy, what bliss, for a little while he'd make her forget about her miserable life as an immigrant spic. Then he'd drop her off at work, and come back to pick her up when her shift ended that evening.

“In the summer, I'll take you out to sea. I liked you the minute I saw you yesterday. I'm just like that. I thought: why don't you show Cindy the boat, since you're moving it to another storage spot, it doesn't seem like she's having much fun at work.”

He sped up on his way to Vidreres as if the cruiser was pushing the truck. It had been years since he'd pulled something like this. He was old enough now to start doing things he was old enough to know better than to do, he thought. If Ahmed were here, he would've laughed and helped him. They would have been a trio. The world didn't end in the apartment in Sils. He wouldn't end up like his father, that's for damn sure.

He exited the main highway. He saw the tree with the bouquet of flowers again. Something must have happened with the two brothers' energy, he thought, two kids younger than him. Just like they passed on their tires to Isma, maybe they passed on their energy to him. Maybe that was what he felt in his blood, what made him pull back the curtain all the way.

That black spot down the hill was the same little whore from the day before. There was no way he was going to pay for sex two days in a row, especially not with Cindy in his sights. But it wasn't even one yet; he had time for a courtesy stop. It was worth it. That girl wouldn't be around for long.
He downshifted and took a good look at her. The looking was always better than the touching, but that little body of hers had the gravity of twenty planets put together. She recognized him from a distance. She stood still, waiting for him, puzzled by what he carried on his flatbed. A boat in Vidreres, what a sight. He downshifted so she could get an eyeful. The girl put her hands on her hips again. What do you think, my love, of what I brought for you? Should we hop on board and skip town? Go east, to your country? Would you get onboard, hmm? We'll go to the beach; I'll untie the boat, reverse on the sand, sink the truck in the water. . . fuck this truck, it's a clunker, we're not coming back anyway, the boat floats, we'll climb on, see ya on the flip side. . . He smiled and glanced in the mirror. Behind him the highway was empty. He braked gradually and stopped the truck right in front of the girl.

She approached him. She walked onto the asphalt, crossed a lane, and drew up close to the truck's window. My god, the way she moved. Such beauty. You had to admit that. Cindy was a piece of shit next to her. She was hotter today than yesterday. Better and better. Let's get married, you ballbuster. How old could she be? She was beyond age. She couldn't be pigeonholed. She was explosive.

He lowered the window all the way down, starting to feel the erection—you'd have to be a robot to resist her, there was no point, it was impossible—she'd give her price, he'd pay it. He swallowed hard, but before asking her what she was charging, he stopped. The chick stared at him, in a way whores never do, almost defiant. Maybe she was high again. It wasn't easy to figure out a chick like that, you had to be
really cold-blooded. Maybe she'd fallen in love with him and she'd do it for free.

Suddenly, the girl raised her fist and separated out her middle finger, the same gesture as the day before, this time right in his face. Then she lifted her chin, turned around, and went back to her spot.

“Evil bitch. Who does she think she is?” He stuck his head through the window and said, in Spanish, “Come on. How much? Come on. Twenty? Is twenty OK? All right. Twenty. Come on. Twenty. OK.”

The girl shook her head and showed him an open palm.

“Five? Fifty?”

She nodded.

“No fucking way,” said Miqui.

Who did she think she was, this piece of shit with curls? Gabriella Fox, Sarah Vandella, Lorena Velásquez? Since when did goddesses of porn do it with truckers in Vidreres? Fucking worthless ignorant whore.

The shotgun was held to the roof of the cab by two hooks. It was easy to pull down. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw no one. The makeshift gun rack worked. He placed the gun on his knees. Now you'll see. Stupid whore wasn't expecting that, she was still laughing when Miqui lifted the shotgun and aimed it at her. She froze. She turned and started to run. Now he was the one laughing. Evil bitch didn't know where to go. She ran like a rabbit, to the right, then the left, then she almost fell. She wouldn't forget this soon.

First lesson, stupid whore: don't fuck with strangers. Don't try someone's patience when you don't know who you're dealing with. Don't be so conceited.

What if he gave her the lesson she deserved? What if he shot her? He undid the safety. You can't just go around provoking people, you piece of shit, one day you'll run into someone with a real nasty streak.

Seriously: he hadn't planned on firing the gun. But things happen. Miqui heard a horn he wasn't expecting, as if a car was about to plow into him. The jolt stiffened his fingers. His index finger pulled the trigger and the shotgun went off. He had never fired a real shotgun. The kickback sent him flying. His heart skipped a beat. He was left stunned and deaf. The cab filled with smoke and he couldn't see anything. He coughed. The horn was still going off, frantically. His shoulder hurt. He looked through the other window and saw the van that kept track of the girl. The man inside was desperately honking the horn. Miqui's heart was going a thousand miles an hour. His fingers and legs trembling, he put the truck into first and stepped on the gas. The wheels spun before gripping the asphalt—they were too worn, fucking Isma. Shit, shit, shit. He got into second gear, into third, and when he reached the first houses of Vidreres, he looked into the rearview mirror.

They hadn't followed him. The whore was running across the highway to the van. The driver opened the door and the girl got in, crouching down inside the van to hide and cry. The van sped down the road, growing smaller as it went toward the main highway.

The streets of Vidreres weren't as deserted as the day before. The truck's engine once again filled them with noise. The women making lunch looked out their kitchen
windows—maybe for the second time, maybe they'd looked up before, surprised by the distant thundering of the buckshot—what was that? Hunters, on a Tuesday? Please, not another accident. They were surprised to see the cruiser passing by, a big white plastic shoe, and thought about how it would be carnival soon and that some group must be secretly preparing a parade float with sailors—sailors in Vidreres, that's a good one. Children screamed with excitement when they saw the cruiser pass by on the other side of the schoolyard gate through the school's large windows, and their teacher had to scold them. A motorboat in Vidreres. Passing by the ATO milk packaging plant, passing the bakery and the little supermarket, passing the tobacconist's and the town hall, toward the church, a boat on a flood of invisible water. Vidreres-Venice, such a thing had never been seen. A boat sailing along narrow streets, between the first-floor balconies, over dry fish and mermaids, over submarine cars and seaweed dogs. The trucker already knew where to park, and when he passed in front of the office with the red Santander Bank sign he thought that must have been where the potbellied man from the day before worked. Hadn't he told him not to come back to Vidreres? Well, here he was again. And, to let him know, he honked his horn a couple of times.

He parked and made sure the truck's door was securely closed. He was safeguarding a weapon. He walked toward the community center without thinking any more about the bank, but just as he passed in front of the office the door opened. There was his buddy, with his white shirt and dark tie, looking fatter than the day before, his face redder, a good candidate for a heart attack. And he had the balls to come
out and point at him. Today, everybody and their mother was skating on thin ice.

“Where are you going?”

He answered with a contemptuous smile. The door opened again and another man came out, about the same age and wearing the same uniform, but thinner.

“What's wrong, Ernest?”

“Nothing,” said Ernest. “Somebody I know.”

“Who is he?”

Miqui didn't stop. Who was that shitty banker anyway? Cindy's father? Her chaperone? Her protector? He didn't even turn to provoke him. He went into the club with a generous smile, with the energy he'd released inside himself by pulling that trigger: his prize for having successfully taken a risk. He could have killed her and he hadn't.

He found it odd to see people sitting around the tables inside the club, with its normal atmosphere, the same dark interior it must have had when it opened its doors a hundred years ago, the ceiling so high you assumed there were cobwebs, the checkered floor with white squares already graying and black ones fading, and the occasional chipped corner of a tile, some split in two, others ill-fitting. More than one club member took their eyes off the television newscaster to look at Miqui. There was a novelty inside the club now, a stranger who had just come in at noon, that intimate time of the day. None of this should've surprised him. When someone from out of town walked into the bar in the Sils town square they got the same welcome. Social clubs were the engines that moved the towns—there were others: the town hall, the church, the sports center, the library, and the schools served
that same function for the children and teenagers. The folks from Vidreres sat with their own kind, and every table was a toothed gear in a powerful, lubricated motor, and Miqui was a grain of sand that they'd grind, but he saw Cindy at the bar, and her gaze stopped on him. Cindy wasn't part of the machinery either, she couldn't be, with that name; all it took was one look at her, with her thin, straight black hair pulled into a ponytail, her dark skin, her short, indigenous body type, the singsongy South American accent that she'd never be rid of. Miqui sat at the bar, and she was drawn to him like a magnet; of course, he was her savior.

“I'll have a beer.”

The waitress smiled and kneeled to get a bottle. She took off the cap and a bit of foam came out. She dried off her fingers, grabbed a mug, and poured the beer into it.

“Were you able to unload, yesterday?”

“I unloaded, now I've come to load up again.”

“To load up what?”

“You.”

“Me?” She smiled again.

“When do you get off? I want to show you something.”

“I'm here until nine, and after that they're expecting me at home.”