10 Tahoe Trap (29 page)

“The Basque have always been artistic. The sheepherders carved drawings into the bark of Aspen trees. One of our UNR professors has documented them in a beautiful book. It’s an ephemeral art form. Every year we lose the oldest drawings as the trees die off, which makes those that remain more precious as time goes on.”

“What did they carve?”

“You name it. Names, dates, poems, landscapes, pictures of their girlfriends. Those sheepherders may have lived quiet lives as loners up on the mountains, but they certainly were boisterous as artists. Some of the arborglyphs are X-rated. If you take all of the arborglyphs as a body of work, it is an amazing record of the lives of the Basque sheepherders. Could be that Paco has some artistic ability in his genes.”

“It sounds like sheep herding was sort of the national occupation,” I said.

“It was important,” Marko said, “but as with all groups, the Basque pursued a wide range of occupations. Baseball player Ted Williams was part Basque. As was Olympic skier Jimmie Huega. And John Ascuaga, the guy who owns the Nugget.”

“The giant hotel in Sparks.”

“Yeah. And back in the late nineteen sixties, Paul Laxalt was governor of Nevada, and, in the seventies, he became a senator from Nevada.”

I remembered the name. “Senator Laxalt is Basque?”

“Along with his brother, Robert, who wrote a bunch of books and started the University of Nevada Press.”

“Tell me,” I said, wanting to ask a question as much for Paco as for me. “The little I’ve heard about Basque people, it always sounds like they’re a big deal. If I hear something about the Scottish, Irish, and Welsh – my ancestors, for example – it’s no big deal. But it seems different with the Basque. What’s that about?”

“It’s probably because of our uniqueness. We have very little connection to the other people of Europe or anywhere else. It shouldn’t be that way because our land is on the border of Spain and France, on the Bay of Biscay. So we are proximate to most of Europe.”

“Proximate,” I repeated.

“Yeah. It would make sense that we would have many similarities to people in nearby countries. But we don’t.”

He continued, “We are linguistically and culturally distinct. To a substantial degree, we are even genetically distinct. Our DNA contains components not found elsewhere. Our blood type is like no other group of people on earth. We have dramatically more O negative blood than any other people, and we have almost no B type.

“The Basque language, Euskara, has no clear relation to any other language, European or otherwise. Our history is a mystery. The best guess seems to be that we were some of the earliest Europeans. The other early European inhabitants were overrun by subsequent waves of migrations from all directions. Celts, Romans, Goths. But somehow the Basque survived centuries of onslaught,” Marko said. The man was obviously proud of his heritage.

I noticed Paco shifting his position on the floor, always draping his arm over Spot’s prostrate form.

“Tough people, huh?” I said.

“Some say,” Marko V said, “that the reason the Basque country has been so durable is the nature of Basque government. President John Adams even commented. He went there in the late eighteenth century and was impressed that, while the rest of Europe had succumbed to the rule of kings, the Basque had resisted any kind of overlords.

“But I have yet another theory about how the Basque have remained cohesive,” Marko continued. “And it is part of my dissertation.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“You probably know about the Spanish Civil War,” he said.

“No, I’m sorry to say that I’m ignorant about that.”

“Well, very briefly, during the Depression, Spain’s right wing became more alarmist and disenchanted with the democratically-elected Republican government. So General Franco, who was a fascist, staged a coup and took over the government and put his Nationalist Party in charge. They executed tens of thousands of suspected leftists, especially Jewish leftists. The resulting civil war pitted the Republicans across the country against the fascist Nationalists.”

“And because the Basque were in Spain,” I said, “they must have got caught up in the war. Which side were they on?”

“As they have always done throughout history, the Basque fought against tyrannical leaders. They were against Franco and the Nationalists. They wanted to be left alone. But Franco wanted to appoint himself king and rule everything. He knew from Basque history that the Basque would never submit. So he engineered one of the worst massacres in history.”

“Killed the Basque?” I said, wincing at the thought.

“Yes, and in the most vile way. He talked Hitler and Mussolini into using their warplanes to bomb the Basque country.”

“This was before the start of World War Two,” I said.

“Right. Nineteen thirty-seven. It was one of the worst terrorist attacks in history, like an evil World War Two training run for Hitler and Mussolini. They unleashed the German Luftwaffe and the Italian Aviazione Legionaria onto a defenseless Basque town where there hadn’t even been any fighting.

“The Basque men were all off fighting Franco’s forces on other fronts, so when the bombers came in to blow up the Basque country, they mostly killed women and children. It was a ferocious, surprise attack on the most innocent of people. Thousands of mothers and their kids.”

“Hard for a people to forget that,” I said.

“Yes. The Basque were peaceful sheepherders. That massacre still sears in family memories. Many writers and composers and painters have commemorated the atrocity.”

“The Basque men must have been outraged.”

“Yeah, some of those peaceful sheepherders turned out to have as much appetite for vengeance as anyone. There were reports of them slaying some Nationalist sympathizers.” Marko gritted his teeth. “War is an ugly thing.”

I was silent for a moment as I contemplated what he said. I walked a short distance away from Paco. Marko followed.

Marko turned to me so that his words wouldn’t be heard by Paco. “You said the boy is an orphan?”

“Yeah. And his foster mom died recently.”

“The foster system can’t find a new home?”

“Not quite,” I said. “Turns out that Paco is an undocumented kid. His foster mothers have been neighbor women in the town where he lived when his real mom died. We could prevail upon the state of California to try to find a home for him, but he’s been in trouble, and they would likely deport him to Mexico, a country he doesn’t know.”

Marko looked over at Paco who was still sitting on the floor, half-draped over Spot.

“Do you know about the Basque clubs?” Marko V asked.

“Haven’t heard of them.”

“There are about four dozen of them spread across the country. Their purpose is to give people of Basque ethnicity a way to connect with each other.”

“And keep the culture alive,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“You think I should contact the clubs? See if they know anyone who would take in a Basque child?”

“Might be worth trying.”

“You have a list?” I asked.

“I can email it to you,” he said.

I pulled out my card and handed it to him.

I thanked Marko for his time and the information about the Basque clubs. We all left.

THIRTY-THREE

When we were back in the car, Paco said, “Why did you tell that woman that my name is William and that I was born deaf?”

“You were listening?”

“I always listen,” he said.

I realized that I would have to be much more careful in the future. Paco was not as unobservant as I thought.

“The woman wanted us to take Spot back outside. I’d already made an appointment with the Basque expert Marko V. So I told a white lie so we could stay inside the museum and meet him. I didn’t want us to wait outside where it would be easier for Salt and Pepper to see us.”

“What’s a white lie?”

“A white lie is what you tell when you have good intentions,” I said, thinking that there was probably a better way to phrase it.

“So it’s good to tell white lies,” Paco said.

“No. It’s probably bad. Most of the time, anyway. It’s just not as bad as telling other lies.”

“Does everybody lie?”

Now I regretted saying anything to the woman. I should have just left the museum and met Marko V outside. “Probably most people lie sometimes,” I said. “Especially white lies.”

“Like breaking the law,” Paco said.

“How do you mean?”

“Some laws are bad to break. Some are not so bad. And everybody breaks some laws.”

“Yeah,” I said, “like not wearing seat belts.”

“Why do they make some laws if everybody breaks them?”

The simplest questions were often the most difficult to answer. Yet I was glad that Paco was talking.

“An optimist would say that we make laws with the best of intentions and that those laws are good even if somewhat unworkable.”

“What’s an optimist?” Paco asked.

“Someone who thinks things will probably work out for the best.”

“That’s why they make stupid laws?” Paco said.

“A cynic would say that people make stupid laws because people have a natural desire to make rules for other people to live by.”

“What’s a cynic?”

“Someone who thinks that people often have bad reasons for doing things.” Another answer that didn’t feel quite right.

“Then I’m a cynic,” Paco said.

“I think you have reason to be a cynic. Some bad men killed your foster mother and chased after you. Meanwhile, some kids have nice families and nice homes and don’t have to worry about the authorities sending them to a country they don’t know. From your perspective, life isn’t very fair. It looks like lots of people have bad motivations.

“But you also have reason to be an optimist,” I added, trying to think fast. “Even though your mother died when you were a baby, other people took you in. They gave you food and clothes and a place to sleep and no one paid them to do it.

“I spent twenty years as a cop. I’ve seen first hand that there are a lot of very bad people out there, enough to fuel the thoughts of endless cynics. But I’ve also met lots of really good people. People who would take in a kid like you.”

Paco turned away and looked out the window. I realized that while I’d talked about good people who had taken him in during the past, I couldn’t find any now.

I called Street, got her voicemail, left a message about meeting up to return her car.

I called Diamond. “Checking in to see if your bed and breakfast offer is still good,” I said when he answered.

“Sí.”

“Gracias. We’re currently in Reno in Street’s car, so I need to get it back to her, then figure a way down to your homestead in Minden to borrow your old truck.”

“Why don’t I pick you up at Street’s lab or condo? Bring you down myself.”

“Muy gracias,” I said.

“Not quite right, but I get the idea,” Diamond said. “Which will it be, lab or condo?”

“I’ve got a message in to Street. Okay if I let you know in an hour or two?”

“Sí.”

THIRTY-FOUR

We drove south to Carson City, then turned west on 50. We were coming over Spooner Summit, back up into the clouds above Tahoe, when Paco said, “That’s the pickup.” He pointed up the highway.

A dark blue pickup was turning across the highway, coming from the southwest, heading north on 28 toward Incline Village.

I turned to follow it and sped up, closing the distance between us.

“When I saw the pickup after the men grabbed you at my cabin,” I said, “it was too dark for me to tell the color. But you said you thought the pickup was dark gray with a white topper. We’ve since learned that the topper might look dark in daylight. This topper is dark, so that fits. But it and the truck are dark blue. That’s not what you thought before.”

Paco stared at the truck as we drew near. I stopped accelerating when we were eight or ten car-lengths back. If the pickup belonged to Salt and Pepper, I didn’t want them to realize who was behind them. They might remember Street’s Beetle from when she used it to block their escape path from my cabin.

“Which do you think it is?” I asked. “This blue pickup, or another one?”

“This one,” Paco said.

“You sound so sure. How do you know?”

“I can tell. The shape of the topper. And the way the bumper sticks out. That’s the bumper I climbed on.”

“Paco, when you first saw the pickup, it was dark, and you were under serious stress. I can understand that your impressions of what the pickup looked like might have been wrong. But why would you think differently now?”

“I saw the pickup again when I got out and ran away down the mountain. It was daylight.”

“Ah, that’s right. What color was the pickup when you saw it then?”

“Blue.” Again, he sounded certain.

“Well, it makes sense that your daytime sense of color would be more accurate than your nighttime sense.”