Kilometer 99 (21 page)

“Probably. Like I said, a lot of what I told you is rumors, so don't quote me, okay?”

“Right. Thanks for calling.” My legs wobbled as I reached inside the office and hung up the phone.

“What the hell happened?” Ben held his arms out at his sides, as if ready to catch me.

“Alex tried to kill himself.”

“Jesus.” Ben winced. “He all right?”

I shrugged. “They're sending him to D.C., to see the shrinks and all.”

“Chuck Norris!” an obnoxious teenage crackhead known as Marlboro hollered as he walked past. He used two hands to make that in-and-out gesture symbolizing sex—for no discernible reason.

“Let's get some privacy,” Ben said. “How about the roof?”

Ben rolled a joint while we sat and watched the sea. The wind had died down and the point looked fun, but I couldn't bring myself even to talk about surfing.

I got much more stoned than was my custom, and tried to figure out what my emotions were, exactly. I'd not looked back since Alex and I broke up. He was a great confidant in training—able to be sarcastic and brutally honest about the Peace Corps. Along with Courtney, the three of us gave one another a break from the relentless optimism and political correctness. I'd always found Alex smart and interesting. He'd been a classics major in college, and was well read—full of references to Shakespeare, mythology, and the Bible.

But as a boyfriend, he'd been a heavy burden. It was hard to read his sentiments and navigate his moods. His awkward good-byes often left me feeling guilty and confused until the next time we saw each other. Socially, he was two-faced. The life of the party one moment—cracking jokes and telling stories. But if he felt the least bit intimidated, he'd retreat into a shy and judgmental shell—not speaking for hours on end. And then there was the fact that he'd cheated on me with that girl who was only here for a heartbeat—something I never forgave him for. We hadn't spoken since.

“Can I ask you something?” Ben studied the nearly spent joint in his hand.

“What?”

“Do you think he'll come back down here?”

I shrugged. “He's got his family right there in D.C. It wouldn't be hard to stay.”

“What might be better for him, do you think?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Guess it depends on how the therapy goes.”

Ben pinched the last of the joint, gave it one more pull, then set it down and left it to burn itself out.

“This would all be easier to handle if we were in the States,” I said. “I tried to talk about suicide with Niña Tere after the news about that Estonian chess master who jumped out a window. It was like we couldn't understand each other. She kept thinking he'd fallen or gone crazy. All these Salvadorans who've been through hell—the war, refugee camps, trips through the desert on the way north—it's like killing yourself doesn't even exist in this culture.”

“Funny,” Ben said. “I feel like this country has made me understand suicide for the first time.”

“How's that?” I asked him.

“It helps to compare us to plants.”

“Plants?”

“Yeah. Plants have this thing called the root-shoot ratio, which keeps them balanced. If they can't get enough sun or air, they grow more shoots. If they need more soil nutrients, they grow more roots. If there's not enough nutrients to be had, they let part of the roots die, and sort of cauterize them.”

“What does this have to do with suicide?”

“You've said yourself that overpopulation is the source of all this country's problems—all humanity's, in a sense. We don't have enough resources, too little light and air. Try to think of people not so much as individuals but as one big organism—a field of grass or something. Then it makes more sense. Killing off some of the new growth gives room to the rest.”

In spite of all my mixed emotions, I didn't like to hear Alex spoken of this way. “Human beings aren't fucking grass.”

Ben shrugged. “It's not how we prefer to think, that's for sure. We like to see ourselves as wolves out on the frontier or something, not connected to any other species, free to go wherever. Eat what we kill.”

The conversation's new direction looked like it might lead us into an argument. I said nothing more.

*   *   *

Months later, a rumor floated around among the Peace Corps volunteers that on the morning of his incident, Alex had spotted a man from his village having sex with a neighbor's goat. The story went that Alex thought of the goat as sort of a favorite animal—one he fed scraps to and watched children play with from his backyard. The man was apparently some cruel drunk coming down from a bender—a man Alex loathed.

It was a story that traveled fast and grew well known. Darkly funny, memorable, and with something of a causal relationship to the suicide, it was perfect. As far as I knew, Alex neither confirmed nor denied it. I was certain it was complete bullshit.

Most likely, he invented the bestiality anecdote while in D.C. He probably didn't lie to the therapists, but the story must have been useful for fending off the curious volunteers from other countries who wanted to know why he was there—and could see the scars along his forearms.

At any rate, he came back to El Salvador six weeks later, joking about the fact that he'd been declared “not a threat to himself or others” by the psychiatrist, as if that was funny.

 

21

We sleep in later than usual. I wake and find myself wrapped up in Ben's arms, my body stiff and starting to sweat.

Ben is half-awake as well. Once he feels me stir, he tightens his arms around my torso. We move toward each other until I'm lying on the inside of a tight spoon. Ben's whiskers tickle the side of my neck.

As the sun rises, a few dogs bark, along with the crowing of the odd rooster and other birdsong. One pink ray shoots in from between the louvers and illuminates the dust particles levitating about our bedroom.

Ben speaks in a throaty morning voice. “Malia, we're going to be all right.”

I sigh. At that moment, I feel more inclined than ever to tell him about the other night with Alex. I believe he'll forgive me, eventually. But I'm terrified of another confrontation like the one we had in the wake of the robbery. If we get into any sort of fight over this, things might be said that would end the trip for good. Better to tell him, I figure, once we're out on the road—if we can still manage to make that happen. And if I can manage to keep Pelochucho quiet in the meantime.

Ben sits up a little. He leans over and looks me in the eye. “You get that, right? It doesn't matter to me how far we go, or how many months we travel. So long as we're together, it's all worth it.”

I lift my head off the pillow and kiss him on the mouth.

He returns my kiss, hard, in a way he hasn't done in days. I inch my way toward him and feel his erection through the sheets. With one hand on my shoulder and another on my hip, he pulls me closer. For a moment, I believe what Ben just said: We will be all right.

Still in a semblance of a spoon position, we grind against each other for another minute. Ben licks his first two fingers, puts them on my hip bone, then walks them inward and down. I spread my knees. Ben breathes into my ear, thrusts his hips forward. I reach between my legs and am just about to guide him inside. Then we hear it.

A piercing beep sounds first. It's followed by the slow rumble of a diesel engine. I sit up straight, afraid that a semi is about to plow into our bedroom. Ben sits up as well.

“What is that?” he asks.

I shrug, then stand and wrap a sarong around myself. Ben fumbles into his board shorts. We open the door and find an enormous flatbed truck backing into the courtyard of La Posada.

The
beep-beep-beep
of its reverse gear makes it hard to hear anything else. Pelochucho stands near the back, giving hand signals to the driver. Kristy watches by the counter, a broom in her hands. Her face can't hide her concern. Did she give Pelo permission for this? What might the owners say, on the off chance they stop by? Surely, Don Adán and his wife would not be pleased to see their establishment turned into a bodega—storing supplies for a competing business.

“What the hell's going on?” Ben shouts into my ear.

“Materials, I guess. For Pelo's hotel.”

Once the rear of the truck is only a few short yards away from us, the beeping stops. Two workers step out of the cab and untie the twine from bundles of rebar and stacks of cement bags. It all feels oddly familiar, like an inside-out version of the deliveries that once arrived at my bodega in the hills above Cara Sucia.

“Morning!” Pelochucho shouts once he sees us.

“You're storing stuff here?” I ask.

“Better this than out at the job site, don't you think? Here it's all locked up. We can keep an eye on it.”

Ben yawns.

Pelo shows the laborers where to stack the cement. He wants it under the hotel's overhang, which won't be easy.

“Make sure they don't block our car in,” Ben says. Nobody but me listens.

“He's probably hoping we'll ferry most of the stuff over in the Jeep,” I say. “It takes four-wheel drive to get up that hill.”

I go back inside our bedroom and put on a pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top. By the time I emerge, the truck's engine is back on. Ben is in the kitchen with Kristy.

“Congratulations!” Pelo screams over the noise. “You're an environmental impact consultant.” He shoves a stack of still-warm fax pages into my chest. “That's your title, by the way. We want to say we hired one of those. Sign and date the last page, put your Social Security number here, and we'll be good to go.”

“You need to give me a little time,” I say. The document is at least ten dense pages.

“Some time?” Pelo looks shocked.

Ben returns from the kitchen with two cups of coffee. He hands one to me, then takes a seat in the hammock.

“This is all happening fast, Pelo. Can I read through this? Think it over?”

Behind him, the truck has shut off. Pelo's helpers stack the cement way too high. It's turning into a tower even taller than they are.

“Some time?” Pelo says again. “I mean, sure. We're on a schedule, but okay. I guess.”

I nod, open the door to our bedroom, and am about to slip inside.

Pelo keeps talking. “Hey, Norris? Who is Alex?”

“What?” Ben asks.

I turn back around.

“Do you know somebody named Alex?”

“He's a Peace Corps guy who works for the Red Cross now. Malia used to date him.” Ben looks over his shoulder and steals a glance at me.

I shrug.

“But he doesn't hang out here. Ever,” Ben says. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Pelo waves his hand through the air. “I must've heard you guys talking about him or something.”

“Give me a second,” I say in a stern voice, staring straight at Pelo, “to read this over. Would you do that for me?”

He smiles. “Of course.”

“By the way, that stack of cement is getting awful high. You'll need a ladder to undo it.”

Pelo turns around. “Shit!” He runs over to his workers and hollers, “Stop! Wait!
¡Muy alto!”

*   *   *

Inside the bedroom, I do my best to give the contract a quick read. Its legalese is just as indecipherable as the document I signed in Jim's office to end my Peace Corps service. At least the money and the time commitment are both what Pelo promised yesterday. I take a deep breath and sign my name.

Back outside, the truck pulls away in a cloud of dust. Ben has taken his coffee up to the roof. I knock on Pelo's door.

He answers it without saying a word.

“Here you go.” I hand the contract to him.

“Excellent.” He takes it and drops it on his bed. “Listen, we need to get out to Ninety-nine today. Could you run me by the Internet café first?”

I swallow and remind myself that this is what I signed up for, that I'm doing it for Ben and me. That our trip is worth it.

“Let's go,” I say.

He smiles, holds up one finger, then steps back into his bedroom. I wait in the doorway while Pelo puts on a collared shirt. On the bed, he pops open a fake-leather briefcase I've not seen before and throws in my contract, along with some other documents.

“Glad we're getting an early start, Chinita.” He opens the small drawer inside his night table. “We've got a lot to do today.”

From the drawer, he takes out a half-open newspaper envelope—one of the cocaine packets. He dips his room key into the powder and holds a white clump out toward me. “Eye-opener?” he offers.

“No thanks,” I say.

Pelo shrugs, then snorts the whole clump up one nostril. A yellowish chunk sticks to his nose hairs. “Okay,” he says. “Let's fucking go.”

He gives a few last-minute instructions to the men unloading the truck, then climbs into the Jeep's passenger seat. I steer carefully around the big cement stack. At La Posada's gate, I wave to Ben, who's still up on the roof.

*   *   *

We park on the street across from the Internet café. Pelo takes forever inside. Luckily, a woman sells
pupusas
and coffee at a stand nearby. I eat off the Jeep's hood; my coffee balances on a painted star from the New Zealand flag.

“Okay.” Pelochucho bursts out of the café, a new manila folder full of paper under his arm. “Let's hit the Western Union, then off to the site.”

“Western Union?” I burn my mouth on a last rushed sip of coffee, then climb into the driver's seat.

“That's right.” Pelo puts the new documents inside his briefcase. “We're back in business.”

I pull up in front of the well-appointed office but don't shut off the engine.

“This won't take long,” he says.