Dancing with the Tiger Read online

“You cut your cheek.”

  “It just got worse.”

  The man dug into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. His meaty thumb rubbed his eye socket. He looked exhausted, like a man who had never learned to take care of himself, and no woman had volunteered for the job. Then it came to her, an electric realization. She knew him. He knew her. He held out a cigarette and a lighter. She took both. Still, no recognition. How can you be so fucking unobservant? Look at me, idiot. Look at my face.

  Anna inhaled, mustering her strength. “So what are you doing here?”

  “Mexico?” He gestured outward to nothing. “Looking for something I lost. Sold, really. I need it back. Then, tonight, I lost my girlfriend at a café.”

  “You should be more careful.”

  “I’ll get it all back.”

  “What did you lose? The thing, not the girl.”

  The man hesitated, like he was debating between the long and short version. “A million-dollar mask.” He gave a quick grin.

  Maybe it was the way his hoodie hung off his shallow chest, or the fact he didn’t recognize her from five feet away, or how the only thing he had to brag about was something he’d lost, but Anna felt a wave of sympathy. Things weren’t going to end well for this guy. He had burned his mind for kindling. He wore his sadness like clothes. Still, she couldn’t resist playing him.

  “Let me guess. You lost the death mask of Montezuma.”

  He recoiled, amazed. “What the . . . How did you know that?”

  “Simple,” Anna said. “So did I.”

  —

  When each story had been told, retold, parsed and compared, when the last of the mescal had been drunk and cigarettes shared, when they’d lain on the steps and gazed into the night sky, gotten philosophical about the passage of time and astrology, how little we humans knew, when they had talked about death and the trickiness of being fully alive, like they were right now, staying up all night, stargazing, when exhaustion set in and they got giddy and made fun of themselves, two American fuckups who’d met at church, two American fuckups who’d lost everything, the same priceless art treasure, the loves of their lives (Anna exaggerated this fact to keep him company), when they’d reviewed the impending threats, Thomas, the Tiger, Reyes, when the looter told her Reyes was missing half his right ear, when they’d laughed about this, speculating where the missing piece had gone, when Anna described the assault and the looter vowed to avenge her, when he lifted his fishing box and told her his gun now had bullets, when the sun ushered in the new day and the birds would not shut up about it, when they agreed to go for coffee, but couldn’t move, Anna turned to the looter and said exactly what she was thinking: “We both want the same thing, but only one of us can have it.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said.

  “This whole story is like lotería, that Mexican bingo game.” The looter nodded vaguely. “Only we’ve got The Tiger, The Dealer, The Expatriate, The Drunk—”

  “Who’s that?” He looked hurt.

  “My father.”

  The looter shook his head. “We’ll flip a coin.”

  “I know a trick how to win.”

  “No tricks. No lottery. Just fate.”

  “We need the mask before March fifteenth. After Thomas’s opening, everyone will know it’s his. Game over. We’ve got what . . . a little more than two weeks.”

  The smell of breakfast grease beckoned, but Anna had no desire to leave. She felt oddly close to this man, as if they’d taken a long car trip together, shared junk food and confessions, or seen something big, like the Grand Canyon, and decided not to take any photos, just remember whatever stuck and let the rest fall away. You could tell strangers things you could never tell a lover.

  The looter lay on his back, ankles crossed. “Malone has the mask. We just need a plan.” He’d said this many times.

  A priest scurried past them, purring good day. He unlocked the church, propped the doors. Anna said, “If I don’t find the mask by Friday, the Tiger is going to kill me.” How many times in her life had she tossed out this expression? So-and-so is going to kill me. Only now, it was true. “And chuck my mother’s ashes in a dumpster.”

  The looter pointed to the church doors. “I’m going in. Get some advice.”

  “From him?”

  “No, her.”

  Anna hadn’t expected this. A pious junkie. He’d told his whole life story without mentioning addiction, but you didn’t get a face like his from sunbathing.

  “You really think the Virgin is going to help you?” She resented his confidence. Other people had God and she didn’t. It was like having family money, health insurance, a back hundred acres. Maybe her father needed religion to stop drinking. God was one of the Twelve Steps, she seemed to recall. Maybe the first step. Maybe the whole staircase. “She’s saved your life once. Now you’re back asking for more. Maybe she’s got other customers.”

  The looter shrugged. “Why wouldn’t she help?”

  Anna could think of a half-dozen reasons. Or none. “That’s Chelo talking.” He looked peeved. “No, that’s good, I mean. You’re doing it.” She had no idea what “it” was. “I’ll wait here. Let me know what she says.”

  He walked up the steps, toe dragging. As soon as he left, Anna missed him. The rest of the city would work today, ferry children to school, come home tired, sleep in their beds, as the donkeys brayed, as the dogs howled, as the moon rose, as water refilled the cisterns, as corrupt coyotes led Mexicans over the border, as gangs trafficked narcotics, as putas disrobed, as mariachis blasted their trumpets, as moths banged against flimsy screens, desperate to reach the light. None of it would stop for her, just as none of it had stopped for her mother.

  Anna remembered something she’d read in the guidebook. This cathedral was famous for its retablos, small oil paintings done on slabs of tin or wood, thanking saints for blessings and miracles. Her father owned a few. She dragged herself vertical, went inside, found a chapel jammed with paintings, each the size of a hardback book, each relating a story of calamity and salvation.

  I give thanks to the Virgin for saving my life. I was working in the circus when an elephant went crazy—

  I give thanks that I found work as a prostitute here in La Merced. Take good care of me so I can send a few pennies to my parents.

  San Judas Tadeo, I bring you thanks because my magueys are giving me lots of delicious pulque.

  Thank you, sweet Virgin of Juquila, for Viagra.

  Thank you, blessed Virgin, for sending me in time to rescue my son who was hanging himself.

  Blessed art thou, San Sebastián, because my father accepted my homosexuality.

  Thank you for getting the gang off that glue-sniffing shit.

  There was an earthquake,

  A lightning bolt,

  A brutal storm at sea.

  My friend’s hair accidentally caught on fire.

  Thank you, San Isidro the Plowman, for sending the rain.

  Pablo lost his hand to a pig.

  Esteban fell in a lake.

  I had blasted rheumatism.

  The iron fell.

  Our nopales are better than last year’s.

  Thank you, sweet Virgin, for curing my sheep.

  Anna walked outside. Her heart felt filled up, overflowing with the ten million ways life could go wrong—and then, miraculously, be saved. She sat, holding herself, rocking just a bit, imagining the retablo she would paint should her own string of calamities be resolved. Thank you, blessed Virgin, for helping me rescue the death mask of Montezuma, for saving me from the Tiger, for getting my father off booze, for bringing my mother’s ashes to rest in Mexico, the country she loved, for making the fickle painter from the zócalo fall in love with me, for sending Miss Venezuela on a Mormon mission to Bora-Bora, for burning Thomas Malone at the stake.

 
There would be no room for a painting.

  The final gratitude was the hardest to admit: Thank you, blessed Virgin, for saving me from a marriage that would have failed.

  She wished she were eating a steaming plate of huevos rancheros. She wished she were wearing more clothes so that none of her skin was exposed. Endure, she thought. This moment will lead to the next. She must have looked pathetic, because when the looter reappeared, he patted her back tentatively, as if he wasn’t sure he was doing it right. The small kindness broke her down.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get the mask back.”

  “It feels like everything . . .”

  She stopped herself, rubbed her forehead, thankful for this person, whoever he was. He couldn’t solve all her problems, but perhaps he could help her with one.

  “What did the Virgin say?” she asked.

  The looter said, “She told me to dig.”

  two THE LOOTER

  The dirt moved easily. The looter had to laugh. If his Divide buddies could see him now, humping for Jesus, digging for Guadalupe. To keep his mind off his aching back, his knees, his thin skin, he remembered the books he’d read about brave warriors who’d faced danger or challenge. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward.

  The plan was simple. A tunnel. The chapel’s hillside location was perfect, miraculous, really. He could dig forward without first having to dig down. The woods hid his mess. The church’s foundation was already crumbling.

  He thought of Anna. Nice girl but a wreck. She seemed fearless or maybe numb. Malone had attacked her. Reyes’s tiger was chasing her. He had tried to reassure her—Reyes would never hurt an American—but the truth was, heads were rolling down the streets of Acapulco, seventy-two immigrants blindfolded and shot in Tamaulipas, six tortured and dumped in a cave outside Cancún, hearts carved from bodies like cantaloupe balls. This was the new Aztec nation, only these killings had nothing to do with the sun. Had Feo told Reyes that he was still alive?

  Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die . . .

  It was easy to be a hero in a poem.

  By noon, his stomach hurt. The looter located a cigarette, sat back, smoked. He pictured Chelo. Lovely Chelo. Like a cello. He wondered if she looked like a cello, but couldn’t remember what a cello looked like. He should have taken orchestra in high school. Another regret. He could stack them like poker chips.

  He picked up his shovel, his mind caressing her body. He wanted her, all of her, even the baby. The straightness of her hair broke his heart, the openness of her forehead. They made a good pair. She had faith. He had experience. He’d traveled. She did laundry. She’d ironed his shirt that first morning. It was still warm when he slipped it over his chest.

  Fucking tree root.

  He crawled out for a saw. He’d like to take his girl to the beach, make love in the waves. He’d seen that in a movie once. As he dug, he tinkered with this fantasy. Sometimes her bathing suit evaporated in the water. Sometimes Chelo wasn’t pregnant anymore. The baby was napping in a hammock. He’d been a proud fool. Let the girl have her religion.

  A dog barked. The looter grabbed his gun, scampered out. On the bluff, a scrappy white dog pressed its snout through the wire fence. The looter aimed, thought better of it, chucked a rock instead. The dog went nuts.

  “¡Faustino!” Angry Spanish. Maybe the housekeeper.

  The looter retreated to the tunnel. He could kill the dog, but not the maid.

  “¿Qué haces ahí?”

  Branches crackled. More barking.

  “Someone’s digging. Who’s down there?”

  The looter closed his eyes, pictured the Virgin. At Mari’s house, he’d memorized the folds in the Virgin’s green cloak, her face, which conveyed serenity and motherly love. Now he asked her to make the housekeeper leave, for her señora to call, her kettle to boil, her period to start. Praying gave wishes someplace to go.

  “Basta,” the woman snapped. “Let the workers alone. You’re covered in burrs.”

  The dog whimpered. Footsteps retreated. Birds. The knife sharpener’s beckoning song. The looter dropped his shovel. Forget the tunnel. He wanted the girl.

  —

  He couldn’t find her house. The streets all looked the same. He stopped a few people and asked if they knew a girl named Chelo. “About so high. Freckles. Lunares.” The women shook their heads, scarcely masking their distrust. When a plump woman pushing a stroller asked, “Is Chelo in trouble?” he knew he had her.

  “No, no. I am a friend, a visitor, and I lost her address. Maybe I should yell, Chelo, Chelo.” He pantomimed calling her, hand to his mouth, wondering if he looked insane. She told him her house was two blocks ahead. Number 48 did not look familiar until he saw the white cat tiptoeing along its wall.

  He needed a present. There was a papelería on the corner, but that wouldn’t do. Sorry I was a jerk. Here are some crayons. Next, a shoe store. One summer he’d worked in a shoe store, and he knew the difference between leather and man-made uppers. He’d like to buy Chelo decent shoes, but didn’t know her size. After that, a flower shop, thank God. He bought pink tulips and a toy puppy with a red felt tongue. Mexican girls like stuffed animals. He’d noticed this. He was proud of himself, spending money on the girl, thinking about what might please her.

  He rang her bell. He was sweating, but who wasn’t?

  The door opened. Chelo looked like a stick figure a child would draw. Moon belly. Thin arms and legs. Straight hair. A splatter of freckles. A dopey smile took his mouth by surprise. He might love her. Or maybe this was the part before that, before love had a name.

  “I found you.” He held out his gift. “Lo siento.”

  He’d learned Lo siento back in grade school. Hello. Good-bye. I would like. I’m sorry. A man could travel the world with four simple expressions. Let his dick and wallet handle the rest. It was easier to apologize in Spanish. The words slid off the tongue. Lo siento. Lo siento could be the sound track of his life.

  The girl accepted the gifts without expression or thanks. He couldn’t read her face. Dirt smudged her cheekbone. She’d been gardening. His grandmother had gardened, had let him drop seeds into holes he poked in the dirt. When sprouts emerged, he’d felt like a father. His pride curled inside him. He might lose his temper or melt at her feet. He gazed past her, hoping the aunt wouldn’t show up, hoping the aunt had a debilitating case of elephantiasis.

  He tried again. “I prayed to the Virgin and then a pig told me . . . You were right. I came back because I was wrong and I missed you.”

  Chelo consulted her womb, like the baby had equal say.

  He would not grovel. “¿Puedo pasar?”

  Her hand dropped from the door. He cupped her hip with his palm. A cello. He could picture it now. He didn’t deserve this girl, but he could become a man who did. The Maddox Principle of Opposing Equilibrium maintained there was always time to turn the boat around. Work hard. Care. Live by his word.

  He kissed her cheek, his lips brushing the dirt. When he pulled back, she was smiling. He could draw her with six easy strokes. Two circles, four lines. But she was simple only on the outside.

  She touched his face. “Can you help me in the garden? I can’t bend over anymore.” She giggled. “I can’t even see my feet.”

  “From now on, your feet are my business.”

  He said this. He meant it.

  three THE COLLECTOR

  Daniel Ramsey couldn’t sleep. Nausea. Regret. The stale metallic taste in his mouth. He gazed through the prison bars, into the hallway, which, through an unseen window, was shifting from darkness to light.

  A man appeared outside his cell. Six-foot, lanky, with the soapy good looks of a baseball player, a catcher maybe, a man who could call tricky pitches, throw out a runner on first. His cap shadowed everything but the strong line of his jaw
. He gripped the bars, hesitant, making up his mind.

  “You related to Rose Ramsey, the art teacher?”

  Daniel hadn’t expected this. “She was my wife.”

  “Mrs. Ramsey taught me art in middle school. Nice woman. Patient with kids with no talent, like me. She that way with you?”

  “Who are you? The warden?”

  “Night guard.”

  “I was on my way to bury her when the cops pulled me over. Damn fools.” This was mostly true.

  “How long has it been since Mrs. Ramsey passed?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “Took your time.”

  “She wanted to be buried in Mexico. I was flying there.”

  “Been saving up?”

  “In a way.”

  “But now you’re in jail with a DUI.” The guard tapped the door with his foot. “You’re supposed to drink after you get to Mexico.”

  “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “You blew a .15.”

  “I can handle that.”

  “Report says you nearly smashed a van full of kiddies and ran up over the curb.”

  “That makes it sound worse than it was. I’ll pay the fine.”

  “You’ll pay with your license. Three-month suspension.”

  “Can I leave the country?”

  “You’ll have to speak with the judge.”

  “I’ll be back in a week.”

  “It depends on his mood. Connecticut state law demands two days in jail. Two days to six months. I’d count on a week. Friday, if you’re lucky. I wouldn’t tell the judge about burying Mrs. Ramsey. It doesn’t ring true.”

  “You got a better story?”

  The guard thought for a minute. “Tell him you just retired and this trip was a present from your kids. You’re a nervous flier and went a little overboard self-medicating. Tell him how sorry you are, but you can’t get a refund on your tour. Promise you won’t drive in Mexico.”

  Daniel nodded, patted his vest, felt his antacids, his compass that glowed in the dark.

  The man tilted back, holding the bars. “What do you do for a living? You teach, too?”