Dancing with the Tiger Read online

  ORIGIN: Berkeley, California

  MATERIALS: Flesh and bones

  DIMENSIONS: Perfect

  DATE DANCED: Last night

  INFORMATION ABOUT THE DANCE: I think you remember

  A Post-it had been stuck on top. “For your collection.” Apparently, Anna wasn’t the only personal assistant who had gotten personal with Thomas Malone.

  Anna scanned the yard. Something was wrong with this place. A gloom or sadness shrouded the house, the distant cottage, the wall over which Thomas had dropped the dead squirrel, the pool no one bothered to clean, the chairs where her father had once sat, drinking, the kitchen where Soledad was frying bananas in corn oil, the grass Hugo cut down to two inches, the dog shit he scooped, and the chapel, locked. Had Holly been let in? Had they met there? Anna shivered. She didn’t want to sleep with Thomas Malone, but for some crazy reason—and this made her question her sanity—she didn’t want to be the only personal assistant who hadn’t.

  —

  A construction van was parked outside Lorenzo Gonzáles’s home. The dealer answered the door, apologized for the disarray. He showed Anna to his office, saying he was glad things had gone smoothly in Mexico City.

  “Actually, not.” Anna was still angry. “I was held up at gunpoint. Where were you?”

  He looked genuinely surprised, as he lowered his large frame into his chair. “How terrible. I had a family emergency in Puebla. I am sorry I couldn’t be there, but you got the mask. What happened?”

  “It all worked out in the end.”

  Gonzáles pulled out a magnifying glass. “Let me see.”

  She passed him the mask. The dealer scoured its surface. “This is either a legitimate antiquity or an excellent reproduction.”

  Anna rolled her eyes. This much she knew.

  “Every object has a story. I will need more time to tell this mask’s full story, but as our looter friend was trespassing in an archaeological site, this is rightly the property of the Mexican government. A foreigner caught carrying looted relics will be deported in forty-eight hours. By law, I should call the police.”

  He plucked the receiver and paused.

  Anna recognized this bluff for what it was. She would bet her last peso Lorenzo Gonzáles had never given the Mexican government so much as an ashtray.

  She kept it simple. “I don’t think that would serve either of us.”

  Gonzáles leaned back. “Leave the mask with me. I can deliver the report in a week.”

  “I need information today.”

  “I prefer not to speculate.”

  “I can’t leave the mask.”

  “With my new alarm system, no one gets in or out.”

  “Can you at least give me a date?”

  Gonzáles frowned. “I can work with photographs, if I must. But you’ll have to come back tomorrow before I could sign authenticity papers. I trust you could wait twenty-four hours?”

  This service was another racket, like paid expert witnesses at a trial. While most art historians labored to document an object’s history—its original use, the context of its burial or storage, its provenance since it was recovered (life, death, rebirth)—less scrupulous experts found creative writing a lucrative profession. It was amazing how many recently surfaced antiquities had previously belonged to unnamed Swiss collections. Anna did not know where Lorenzo Gonzáles fit on this ethical spectrum, but she had her suspicions.

  Gonzáles held up a pencil. “You realize, even if I write, ‘The death mask of Montezuma the Second has finally been discovered,’ scholars will rebut my claim. Jealous collectors will deny it. But my review is the first step. The process starts here. With me.” Gonzáles pointed his pencil to his desk. “While I work, I can give you a history lesson. Or are you too busy for that?”

  Anna slid back in her chair.

  “This sort of mosaic mask dates back to the postclassical period. Most masks were worn in religious services by priests, but the aristocracy was buried with masks to ensure safe passage to the underworld. The Maya had a saying: A king dies, but a god is born. Everybody wanted to live forever. You want to live forever?”

  Anna nodded. She needed the papers.

  Gonzáles produced a digital camera, lecturing on as he worked.

  “Priests and royalty were buried with masks, gold, even dogs. Hairless dogs, Xoloitzcuintli, were slaughtered to guide the dead over the river. Today, masks are still used for celebrations. Carnival. Semana Santa. Día de los Muertos. Your typical campesino has no idea why he wears a mask. A fiesta is an excuse to get drunk. They wear masks because their fathers wore masks and their fathers wore masks, back, back.” He leaned in. “Look at my face. What do you see?”

  Nose hair. Veins. Exhaustion. She saw all this but said, “An educated man who knows a lot about archaeology and is proud of his country.”

  Gonzáles pulled back, smug. “Exactly. You see only what I want to show you. The human race has outgrown its face. The face no longer serves a purpose.”

  “And the body?”

  “The body is not so good at keeping secrets.”

  The house was suddenly quiet. No housekeeper, no workmen. Just the tick of the hall clock. Anna wished he’d left the shades open. She thought of the dead tiger. An ordinary man, but to himself a whole world. Gonzáles held out the mask. His breath smelled of garlic. She could map his pores. She reached over and took back the mask. It was all she could do not to snatch it. Her shoulders shook, a warm chill.

  “You are wearing a mask right now,” he said. “Why is that?”

  Anna set her jaw. She had no answer, but was sure Gonzáles did.

  “Because, my dear, like the Aztecs, you are afraid.”

  three THE GARDENER

  With burning hands, Hugo pushed past the curtain into Pedro’s house. He tore through the dead man’s belongings—kitchen, closet, bed, dustballs, flip-flops, condoms—berating himself with a tickertape of expletives. His stomach churned a sluice of acid and nerves. He tried to think like a man with something to hide.

  Outside, he searched the yard, studied the trees, the crisscross of branches, language he could not decipher. Finding nothing, he roared through the shitty house again, then collapsed outside in a plastic chair, pulled out a smoke. He could barely manage the cigarette. The logistics of fire and ash.

  The cabrón would have needed to sell the mask quietly, without alerting Reyes. He might have sought help from his uncle Berto, a museum janitor who stole trinkets nobody missed, but such plans were delicate, took time. Hugo watched the clouds, pontoons of white nothing. A church bell tolled. The road was quiet, the entire town in mourning. Then he figured out the riddle, just like that: The idiot had hidden the mask in his car.

  Pedro’s house had no lock, but his car did. Locking the mask in the trunk would make sense to a simple man. But where was the car? Not here, where it belonged. Pedro must have snuck back to San Juan del Monte that morning. Parade roadblocks would have blocked his entry. The pool cleaner had not known he would die at Carnival with his car parked awkwardly across town, this basic chore left undone. (Hugo preferred to think that Pedro had died, not that he’d been killed, not that he had killed him.) The death mask was still inside the car, baking in the sun, waiting to be found.

  Hugo had already discovered a spare car key in a pitcher. He snatched it and slunk into town, cap low, lest he be recognized. He worked systematically, block by block, moving out from the zócalo, carving ever wider squares.

  If he didn’t find the mask, Reyes would kill him.

  If the police found him, he’d rot in jail.

  Yellow girl made of yellow sun. What I do, I do for you.

  Of the millions of sedans, he wanted only one. Blue Ford. Beat-up seats. They should invent a car that called your name. Hugo. I’m over here, asshole, frying by the dumpster. Or better yet, a woman’s sexy
voice. Papito, I’m hot. Open my doors.

  Eight blocks from the zócalo, he found Pedro’s car dozing under a tree. The way his luck was going, he half expected it to drive off when he got close. He slipped in the key. The door flew open. He checked the burning seats, dove under them, opened the trunk, weeded through the dead man’s crap, cooler, spare tire, jumper cables, a bong. Nothing. He calmed himself, checked everything again. More nothing. He slammed his fist on the hood. Left a dent. Thunder shook his insides. He searched the sky for the reason God never saw fit to care for him. The sun would not stop shining. The trees didn’t give a damn. Maybe he should pray to Santa Muerte. Whose side was that bitch on?

  —

  Back at Pedro’s house, Hugo dumped drawers, smashed trinkets. His thoughts swarmed, dreams mixing with anxiety, worries sifting with memories, memories with omens of tigers and guns. He saw the girl’s father lift her yellow dress. He saw Santa Muerte taunting him to blow a little smoke on your mother. He saw Soledad, lit in the doorway. You are just pretending to plant dahlias. He saw the burning comet disintegrate into sparks. He saw Pedro shoveling tacos, giving a thumbs-up.

  Where was the pinche mask?

  Everything was somewhere even when it was lost.

  A fly landed on the lid of an orange soda can.

  Hugo kicked a spare chair. Pedro’s house depressed him. The burro had never learned to care for himself. His whole life he’d still needed his mother. By his bed hung a framed photograph of Señora Leonora Modica de Rodríguez, a twig of a woman, a living skeleton. The old woman grinned like she had secrets she’d take to the grave. Hugo smiled at his stupidity. Motherfucker. He’d never been a man of profanity, but he was no longer the same man. Of course—a Mexican with something to hide would give it to his mother.

  Hugo picked up the fallen chair, set it straight.

  At the corner cantina, he ordered a mescal, laid two coins on the bar. His knife was clean. His heart was clean. He was new water rushing over ancient rocks. He crossed himself, hitched his jeans, took a bus into the mountains.

  four THE COLLECTOR

  He’d sit at the bar and have a Coke. He could do that. He’d lost his wife. For years, he had drunk to ease that sorrow, but she wasn’t coming back. He had come to terms with this. Just wrapping things up. Three o’clock. Blinds carving horizontal strips of light. What can I get you? Bottles glimmered with mystery and warmth. Daniel Ramsey said something. Either he said a dry vodka martini or he said a Coke, no ice. He thought both and said one. His hands shook. He grabbed a toothpick, bit down, pulled the splinters from his mouth, crammed peanuts into his dry trap. Over at a booth, a woman in a narrow gray suit sipped seltzer. She kept adding the same column of numbers and frowning. He remembered La Campana, how he had been nursing his queasy stomach with Campari when Manuel López burst through the door saying the señor was needed on the phone. The wind chimes shook. There has been an accident involving Señora Ramsey. Daniel had not moved. He finished his drink. Manuel was nearly in tears, pulling his arm. Señor, please. Come now. He’d pushed the Mexican away. I hear you. Don’t rush me. He was sick. The drink was helping. He tipped the glass to capture the last drop. The ice fell against his face. He ordered another. Just like now, he’d ordered another. Coke or vodka. One word could change your life. You jump. You bet. You marry. You quit. You drink. You ask. You buy. You touch. You remember. You say yes. You say no. You say I’ll have what you’re having. You say one more, please. You say I’m buying. You say I have not been this happy since my wife died. You say another round. You say it’s good to have friends.

  You say my daughter is in Mexico just wrapping things up.

  You say, I must go and find her.

  five THE LOOTER

  The looter spent all day in bed. It was the most peaceful day he could remember, but also the saddest. He understood, because he was not stupid and no longer high, that all that shiny good feeling, the rightness of his every move, the beauty of every moment, was the product of crank, and the only way to make that particular sun rise again was to smoke more, though he also knew, because he was not stupid and no longer high, that chasing that bliss would kill him. The unfairness of this conundrum blasted his insides. Once you had tasted the limits of human ecstasy, how could you settle for less?

  He was lucky to be alive and tried not to feel sorry for himself or devise new ways to score drugs. The woman fed him chicken broth and dressed his wounds. He did not ask why she was helping him, for fear she would stop. No husband appeared. No children or neighbors. Her name was Mari, short for Marisol. Every few hours, she fixed him herbal tea from what looked like pine needles. He’d given up asking what it was called. Some Indian remedy with a fucked-up name.

  Finally, his curiosity got the best of him, and he asked her why she was helping him. “¿Por qué me estás ayudando?”

  She was sitting on her stool. Her heaviness inspired confidence.

  “This is my penance. For Lent.”

  “What did you do?”

  Mari shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “I don’t want drug money.”

  “You want sex?’

  “With you?” This amused her. “They paid me to keep quiet, but I put the money in your wallet. You will need it to get restarted.”

  “Then what can I give you?”

  Mari looked around. “Something for my shrine, perhaps. You should thank the Virgin Mary for saving your life.”

  The looter closed his eyes, wishing she’d asked for a new TV instead. “For your shrine . . . what? Like incense?”

  “Burro. Incense costs ten pesos. Is that what your life is worth?” It was the first time he’d seen her angry.

  “I’d like more marijuana.” He hoped the formal name sounded medicinal.

  “You take too many drugs.”

  “Pot is nothing.”

  “I can see everything you do in your face.”

  “More pot, Mamá.”

  “I am not your mamá.” The woman reached for a joint. “I am your lesbian aunt. Drink your tea.”

  —

  The next morning, Mari roused him, saying he needed fresh air. Until then, the looter had left his room only to piss. Though it was still early, heat radiated off the patio in waves. He squinted, took her arm, tried to look brave. She picked up a basket of apricots and led him to a gate.

  What he saw was a garden so magical it didn’t seem real. Wild orchids, tongue-tied vines, ferns the size of giraffes, bird feeders, coral blossoms—a bit of the Amazon rain forest set in a parched middle-class neighborhood in Mexico. It reminded him of the drawings children make when they’re told not to leave any white space.

  “I must go to work,” Mari said. “Sit down awhile.”

  The looter didn’t want to stay alone. “What am I doing here?”

  Mari pointed to a bench. “Recuperating.”

  She left him. He sat, sneezed. Manure. Lilies. A lot of goddamn pollen. Perfect place for a snake. He wasn’t used to nature and couldn’t decide if he liked it, though after a moment, he relaxed, stopped trying to be bigger than what was before him. He considered each plant in turn. Orange trees. Cactus like fireworks. A dozen kinds of pleasing flowers he couldn’t name. At the far end, Mari’s shrine, a three-foot stone statue of the Virgin, arms open, blessed the sheep, no, the flock, the garden, whatever. Votive candles dripped white wax.

  Something gray darted past his face. A hummingbird, for God’s sake. The bird landed on a tube feeder filled with red sugar syrup. His father had taught him about hummingbirds. Tiny things. Fragile. Some weighed no more than a penny. Flying like maniacs to stay in one place. Chasing the sweetness of flowers. He knew the feeling. Sadness reached his eyes, watching the damn bird sputtering. Stupid little bird he could kill with his fist.

  He missed being high. He missed it more than
he missed his father, mother, and old girlfriend combined. He’d been born good, but something had happened. Burdens, failures, and now what could he do? Dig his way out? Put the goodness back? Plant himself like a garden? Every day, a new seed.

  He ripped open an apricot, held out its juicy flesh in his palm, tried to look like a tree. Rooted. Strong. But the bird was fixated on the red sauce, dipping its needle beak and guzzling. Here I am, little bird, with real fruit. Maybe he should sing. His arm was getting tired. He divided the fruit, held out both hands, balanced. He was thirty seconds from feeling stupid, thirty seconds from jumping the fence to find Pico. Juice gummed between his fingers. The bird wouldn’t come. Maybe hummingbirds didn’t like apricots. Maybe he should buy the bird a fucking Coke. No, idiot. Just stand there. Wait. Get used to waiting for good things to happen.

  In that quiet, waiting for the bird that never came, he figured out what to give Mari for her shrine—the most sacred object he had ever possessed—but he would need every ounce of cunning and courage, maybe even prayer, to secure it. Mari was right: His life was worth more than a stick of incense.

  The college dropout from Divide, Colorado, was an international treasure.

  six ANNA

  Visiting Salvador’s studio had seemed like a good idea, but now as she stood at his door, her visit struck her as silly and presumptuous. What if his invitation had been a mere pleasantry? Maybe the murder had created a false intimacy that would now leave nothing but awkwardness. What if she hated his paintings? Her friend Alice once joked that the trickiest point in a new relationship was when your lover offered to read his poetry. Well, she’d ask questions, hope he’d mistake curiosity for praise. She’d find her favorite picture and make much of it.

  The door opened. Salvador looked tousled. The stubble of his jaw rubbed against her cheek when he planted a single air kiss. She smelled vanilla, a whiff of turpentine.

  “I am glad you came, but I feel nervous. Whenever I show someone my art, I worry it is no good.”