The Girl Who Remembered the Snow (16 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl Who Remembered the Snow
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“Julio, goddammit,” shouted Garr, kicking angrily at the man's shoes. “If I catch you sleeping one more time, I'm going to throw you in the ocean, you understand? You gotta do your job, man. Go back there and guard the gate, goddammit. What if there had been trouble? Jesus H. Christ!”
Julio scrambled to pick up his rifle, then fled in the direction of the front gate.
“Is there a lot of trouble here?” asked Emma.
“Nothing major, just kids looking for what they can get, mostly. We pay the cops pretty good, and the San Marcans are really pretty honest, just miserable poor. When the revolution comes, though, look out. Bad business, believe you me. You get the kind of poverty they got here, you're just asking for trouble. So let's see what we got here.”
Garr entered the shack, rummaged around in the stacks of books, and came out with two ledgers and the straight-backed, armless chair on which Julio had been sleeping.
“What was the name again?”
“The
Kaito Spirit.”
“Whose was it?”
“My grandfather's. Jacques Passant.”
“Navy man?” asked Garr hopefully.
“No, I don't think so. He was French.”
“Too bad,” said Garr, disappointed. “Don't get many Navy men down here. Just guys who learned their sailing out of a bank account.”
He placed the chair on the dusty ground in front of the shack, sat down, and leafed through the books for a few minutes.
“No
Kaito Spirit,”
said Garr finally, closing the volume. Sorry.”
“Well, it was a longshot.” Emma sighed. “It would have been too easy to find it on my first stop, I suppose. There must be dozens of marinas on the island.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I don't know. The ocean. A lot of people down here must have boats. Don't they?”
“This ain't exactly yacht-club territory, honey. Most of the locals don't got two sticks to rub together. The only reason you see all these boats is Las Calvos. People sail the Caribbean and stop here to play golf. Las Calvos is supposed to be one of the top courses in the hemisphere.”
“You can't mean that this is the only marina on San Marcos?”
“It's the only one on this side of the island,” grunted Garr. “There's another big one in Puerto Lavera, up north, where you find the good beaches, but that's about it. The kind of folks who can afford these kind of craft don't have reason to go anywhere else on San Marcos but here and Puerto Lavera. Unless they've got their own estates. There are some of those. They got private docks. Nothing else in the whole country but dirt and poor people.”
Emma was silent a moment, trying to think.
“Was the marina in Puerto Lavera in existence thirty years ago?” she asked finally.
“Sure. It's the been around since the twenties.”
“How far of a drive is it?”
“Two or three hours, through the interior,” said Garr, scratching the graying beard stubble on his face. “You can't drive there, though. Not from here.”
“Why not?”
“Roads are for shit, and there's no gas. Bandits, too. Leftist guerrillas. Whatever you want to call them. You gotta take a plane from San Marcos City. But get yourself a room first, that's my advice. You're in the middle of tourist season, and it gets pretty crowded up there. Most of the decent places are sold out months in advance. A buddy of mine went up last week and had to share a room with eight cock-a-roaches and a rat.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Emma, discouraged. “Is there a place to get gas near here? And maybe something to eat?”
“Yeah, Las Calvos.”
“Anywhere else?”
“What's wrong with Las Calvos? I woulda thought you'd love it there.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
Garr looked her over as if seeing her for the first time.
“There are gas stations in Benitra, that's up the coast a ways.”
“That's it?”
“Well, it's against regs, but I suppose I could sell you a tank for a hundred and fifty pesos.”
“A hundred fifty pesos! Isn't that pretty expensive after the nice souvenir I gave you, Mr. Garr? I only need about half a tank.”
“Half a tank, whole tank, the risk's the same to me, and that's what you're paying for. Now for twenty pesos more, I'd be glad to throw in a couple of salami sandwiches …”
“I'll take them.”
“ … only I ate them for lunch.”
“I guess I'll just take the gas then.”
Garr grinned broadly, walked Emma back to her car and had her pull around to the first dock, where an old-fashioned pump was concealed. It took a few minutes to fill her tank. Timoteo had
gotten into the car and Emma had handed over the extortionate payment before Garr spoke again.
“I just remembered,” he said, leaning in on the door. “There used to be a marina in Migelina. You might poke around there, see if they got any old records, before you schlep all the way up to Puerto Lavera.”
“Where's Migelina?” said Emma.
“South of the city. An hour's drive, maybe.”
“But the marina isn't there anymore?”
“No, not for twenty years, but there are still some old-timers around who might remember this
Kaito Spirit
you're looking for. There's some rich folks with their own docks down there, too, from the old days. Migelina used to be a resort town, pretty fancy —the Las Calvos of its day, until it got clobbered in Hurricane Jane. They still talk about that one. Wrecked the whole south of the island.”
Emma thanked Sid Garr—though for what, she wasn't sure, the interlude had cost her a small fortune—and drove out of the marina's sandy parking lot to the gate, where Timoteo had to get out of the car to open it. Emma didn't want to bother Julio, who was sitting against the fence fast asleep, his rifle on his lap.
Timoteo was uncharacteristically quiet, and Emma didn't speak until they were several miles away from the marina, back on the road they had taken up from San Marcos City.
“That was pretty stupid, Timoteo,” she said finally.
“What?” grunted the boy, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively.
“Stealing those things.”
“I didn't steal nothing. A man gave them to me.”
“What man?”
“I don't know. A man.”
“Lying about it is worse.”
“I'm not lying. Why you call me a liar?”
Emma stamped on the brake. There was no one behind her—there was no traffic in sight. The car skidded to a halt on the pitted concrete road. She leaned across the seat and opened Timoteo's door.
“Get out.”
Timoteo looked up at her, startled.
“Why you want me to get out?”
“I don't like thieves. Get out.”
“I'm not a thief. I'm your guide. You can't find your way back to San Marcos City without Timoteo.”
“I'll take my chances.”
“You are joking,” he said, laughing nervously. “You make joke on Timoteo.”
“Get out, Timoteo. I'm bigger than you are and I'm as strong as a hickory stick. I'll throw you out physically if I have to.”
Staring at her, the boy slid over and got out of the car. Emma leaned over and shut the door.
“You don't know nothing,” Timoteo said, leaning in the open window. “You are ignorant lady. How you are going to talk to people without me? What if the police stop you again? What are you going to say? It is many miles back to San Marcos City.”
“I thought you were my friend, Timoteo.”
“I am your friend.”
“No, you're not. I can trust my friends. My friends don't steal. My friends don't lie to me.”
“Okay. I not lie to you or steal anymore.”
“How am I supposed to believe you?”
“Because I'm telling the truth.”
“You said you were telling the truth before, but you were lying.”
“I'm telling the truth now.”
“How do I know that? All I have is your word.”
“My word is good. You believe me.”
“Well, sorry. I don't. That's what happens to liars. People stop believing them, even when they aren't lying. How can I ever know if you're telling me the truth?”
“I'm telling the truth!” shouted Timoteo, his voice shrill with anger, frustration, and perhaps a little fear, Emma couldn't tell. “I'm telling the truth! I'm not lying! I'm telling the truth!”
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“Can I get in?”
“Yes.”
Timoteo opened the door and jumped onto the seat.
“We are friends?”
“I'm your friend,” said Emma. “Are you mine?”
“Timoteo is your friend. He will not lie anymore to you. You are having your period, right?”
“What?” exclaimed Emma. It was not a question she expected from a ten-year-old boy.
“My aunt sometimes gets crazy like you, when she says she is having her period.”
“I'm not having my period,” said Emma, restarting the engine.
The boy nodded soberly.
“Then I think maybe you are hungry. I know I am. And that is the truth.”
 
“What exactly does the sign say?” asked Emma forty minutes later, outside a place she wouldn't have stopped at on her own in a million years.
It was no wonder she hadn't noticed it on the drive up—it looked like the kind of abandoned, boarded-up joints you passed on stretches of road that had lost all their traffic to interstates and McDonald's. No interstates had ever stolen business from “Comedero,” however. And there were no McDonald's in sight.
“It says they have good food, come on,” said Timoteo, getting out of the car and leading the way to a screen door at the side of the building.
They entered and found themselves in a dark little room with five Formica tables. Two chubby women with stringy black hair were sitting on stools at one end of the single small room. Next to them was a four-burner white stove and an old green refrigerator, neither very clean.
“Qué tiene de comer?”
said Timoteo in the direction of the women, walking to a table in the back and sitting down without ceremony.
“Sopa de carne y habichuelas,”
giggled the taller of the two, brushing away a stray hair from her face. Or was it a fly?
“They have bean soup with meat today,” said Timoteo, leaning back in his chair as if he owned the place.
“What kind of meat?” asked Emma, sitting down across from him, feeling very American and very squeamish.
Timoteo shouted the question to the women in Spanish. A conversation ensued that lasted several minutes, with both of the women chattering happily at once for most of the time and Timoteo putting in his two cents occasionally. Finally everybody fell silent.
“It is meat,” said Timoteo to Emma, nodding positively. “Okay?”
“What else do they have?”
The tuna-fish salad didn't seem like a good bet in a place where they kept the mayonnaise in an open dish in the cupboard. Neither did a dish that Timoteo could translate only as “peanut-butter corn.” Emma settled for two dusty bags of Cheez Doodles and a bottle of Coke after ascertaining that the packaging was intact.
Timoteo had the bean soup with meat, which he seemed to enjoy. Emma finished a whole bag of Cheez Doodles without commenting on the boy's table manners. He apparently had adopted for use on his spoon the grip Sid Garr had employed on his baseball bat.
“How is it?” she asked finally.
“Good,” said Timoteo, his mouth full.
“What are those?” Emma asked, indicating the plate of yellow things one of the women had brought out and which Timoteo ate with his fingers between spoonfuls of soup.
“Fried plantains. You want some?”
“No, thanks. It would be easier to eat if you sat up straight.”
The boy was hovering an inch over the dish on his elbows while he shoveled the food into his face.
“Mmmphgaagh.”
“And don't talk with your mouth full.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's not polite.”

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