Dancing with the Tiger (22 page)

It was one in the morning when he parked outside the Puesta del Sol and slipped on the tiger mask. He was angry with himself for losing the girl. Silly people. Everyone knew how this was going to end. He jumped the wall, crossed the patio to her room. The curtains were drawn. He lifted the flimsy screen from its track, hoisted himself inside. The room was empty, bed made. He checked the bathroom, the armoire, a twist of dirty clothes. No death mask. In the closet, he found a ceramic urn, peeked inside, closed it. In the bathroom, he sprayed her perfume inside his mask, sat on the toilet, door ajar, machete across his lap. He was four days late delivering the mask to Reyes. Not good. Not at all. His insides stirred with hunger. He let his eyes close, imagined the gentle touch of the papershop girl.

Acércate. Come close and be with me.

An hour later he woke, looked out the window. A strange, missile-like shape arced across the night sky. East to west. Orange. Aggressive. A reminder that man was mortal, not in charge. He shivered with recognition. A streaming comet. The sixth omen. That left only two.

He fired off a text to Reyes:
P
atrón, Will have the mask in your hands soon. Excuse the delay. Your humble servant. The Tiger.

One in the morning and the streets of downtown Oaxaca were empty, except for a line of parked taxis, whose dozing drivers slumped over their steering wheels like men who'd been shot. Anna marched up the marble steps of the Excelsior, the city's only four-star hotel, and handed the concierge her emergency credit card. A room cost 3,800 pesos a night. At that inflated price, Anna assumed, the staff didn't allow guests to be murdered.

The lobby was opulent. Burgundy wallpaper. Gleaming baby grand. Mahogany chairs with eagle talons for feet. Gregorian chants rose up a spiral staircase. In wall-size mirrors, Anna caught sight of her own bedraggled face. Matted hair. Eye sockets like golf balls.

If the wiry man at the desk was surprised to see an American check in after midnight without luggage, he hid his curiosity behind a veneer of good manners and perfectly enunciated Spanish. He passed her the
guest book. She filled out her name, address, e-mail, then paused at “Emergency Contact,” momentarily stumped. If there had been such a person, she wouldn't be here in the first place. Aware of the concierge's questioning gaze, she scribbled:
Constance Malone.
He handed her a giant key attached to a red velvet ribbon. Third floor. Room 303.

“Desayuno de cortesía comienza a las siete.”

Anna asked if the bar was open. The concierge bowed his head with great regret. “Not at this hour, but we have room service.”

“I would like a bottle of mescal.”

The concierge blinked. “Shall I get the wine list? We have several varieties.”

“I have confidence in your taste.” She wasn't sure she'd said this right, and so added: “It doesn't matter.” But
No importa
sounded rude, so she added: “What I wanted to say was, ‘Yes, it matters, but I am sure whatever mescal you bring will please me.'” Having made a hash of the transaction, she turned, unspeakably tired.

The tiny elevator headed to the third floor. A mosaic of mirrors cut Anna's face into diamonds. Her lips had lost all color.

At the second floor, the elevator stopped. The doors opened to a short, acne-scarred man wearing black silk pajamas and a crimson dressing robe. His feet were jammed into yellow socks and black leather slippers. His head was wrapped in a turban, beneath which pinprick eyes glimmered with Hugh Hefner smugness. The man held an enormous martini, garnished with a pair of spiked olives.

Anna pointed up.
“Arriba.”

The man signaled down with his unlit cigar.
“Abajo.”
He ogled her indecently, as though she were the one in pajamas. He lifted his glass, an invitation. One eyelid twitched. The elevator doors closed. And Anna thought,
Jesus Christ. It never ends.

Her room was both understated and grandiose. Thick white moldings, oil paintings of milkmaids, French doors opening onto a balcony. A vase of pungent tiger lilies sat on a marble-topped dresser, along with a saucer of chocolates, and amazingly, already, a bottle of mescal. It was a room for honeymooners, opera singers, Japanese businessmen, who would pair their wingtip shoes outside the door to be polished. Anna set down her things, poured a shot. She wanted to reach a place where she would not see the Tiger's machete, or Salvador's face saying,
I am not safe with you.
She drank, dreaming up clever rebuttals. All the other ways she was right. She said them in English, translated them into Spanish. She checked on the mask. Its face looked like she felt: shattered.

Her phone had a new text from David:
Call me. U not only 1 hurting.

Anna typed:
No quiero verte ni en pintura.

I don't want to see you even in a painting.

Fortified, she wove into the hallway. The banister circled down to a round Oriental rug. She peered over the edge, imagining what she would look like falling. The art of it. The spectacle. She'd wear a dress, mint-green taffeta that would balloon and cocoon for a glorious instant. Mescal rose in her throat as archangels supplicated in Latin. Fact:
The two most common dreams were of being chased and of jumping from a high place.
And she thought:
I am living the dream.

She was drunk, eager to be drunker. Behind her, a display case showed off luxury items available for purchase: silver tea set, porcelain cherub, silk scarves. When her room key wouldn't turn the lock, she fetched her phone and a Swiss Army knife. She unscrewed the case's hinges and, feeling ingenious, wiggled out the scarf, then swiped a brass candlestick with an embedded jade angel. She was collecting art. She was an art collector.

She left the door hanging, climbed higher, chanting,
Tiger, tiger, burning bright.

What kind of coward signed his name “The Tiger”?

On the fourth floor, she found a chapel. How strange. How magical. Four rows of pews fronted by a life-size crucifix. Jesus was a bloody mess, tangled beard, gloomy eyes. She thought about praying, but took pictures instead.
Flash, flash, flash.
A blizzard of green dots. The room was spinning. Clutching the angel candlestick, the scarf ringing her neck, she lay down and watched the fairies, no, Furies, dance across the ceiling, snakes in their hair. Adultery. Incest. Murder. They came to earth to drive the guilty insane.

She'd sleep here. Wait for an angel to find her.

When she opened her eyes, a kindly-looking woman was gazing down at her. She wore a black uniform and a pressed white collar. Another face appeared. The concierge. Also, the elevator man with the bad complexion. The woman said: “Shall I call the police?” The voices of the archangels rose in chorus, but Anna could not answer or move. She let sleep soothe her. Thick and warm.

She dreamt Thomas was undressing her. She dreamt she enjoyed it.

The bus groaned up the hill as the driver manhandled a yard-long stick shift that resembled a frozen snake. They held hands in the dark. Chelo's braces shone like jewelry. He hadn't done this since he was in high school: taken a girl out, picked up the tab, held hands. The innocence of the moment moved him. Life could be a love song. A safe place where good people stuck together.

Every lit room in the city had people inside.

Back at her house, he kissed Chelo
buenas noches
. Quick, on the lips. Turning away, he was proud of himself. For once in his life, he hadn't pushed things too far.

He fell hard into bed. The air smelled like straw and animal hide, a regular manger. The night was alive with sounds. Dogs. Fireworks. Ranchero music. Sergio Vega, again. They played his hit song every five minutes. Poor bastard. The king of
narcocorridos
made a killing
singing ballads about drugs lords. One day, rumors started that Vega had been murdered. The singer did an interview to put the gossip to rest. Hours after the denial, he was gunned down in his red Cadillac. You couldn't make this stuff up.

A mosquito dive-bombed the looter's head. No fucking screens. Where was Chelo to keep him company? Forget the gallant routine. Who did he think he was? Frank Sinatra? Heart attack, aneurysm, bullet in the head—you never knew when the red Caddy was coming for you, so screw the girl. Screw the girl
now
.

He lit a joint, tried to name every dark shape. Reyes was out there, but as long as the looter stayed dead, he was safe. Car door. Motorcycle. Cowbell. The night would not shut the fuck up. The pot was good, but he could do better. That dude at the kiosk, a dealer, for sure. If he left now, he'd be back in a half hour. Chelo wouldn't miss him because
she was already sleeping
. Selfish of her, but people were like that. Putting their needs first.

His girl appeared in the doorway with a soft
“Hola.”
The security light lit up her nightgown, exposing her swollen silhouette. Her belly looked like Neptune.

“Come here,” he said. “Lie down with me.”

He'd never been close to a pregnant woman and he wondered if she was going to feel like a fat girl, but she was hard all over, in the bony parts, in her belly, too. She smelled soft, though. Shampoo flowery, a turn-on. She was wearing panties but they weren't much. He nuzzled her neck. She moved into him like he was doing something right. Her stomach was so large it was awkward, so he rolled her over, spooning, resting his hands in the warm space between her stomach and her breasts. His scabs still hurt. A strange sadness washed over him, déjà vu or premonition or warning, quickly replaced by joy. He was not dead
like Sergio Vega. Any day, you could start over. Any day you could say,
I am not doing that anymore. I am doing this instead.

A man could populate the United States in a single ejaculation.

A man could meet his wife on a bus.

The looter practiced her name. It was hard to remember, because it didn't mean anything.

“
Chelo.
What type of name is that?”

The girl gave an amused peep, then squeezed his hand. She spoke patiently, like she wouldn't mind teaching him things for the rest of her life.

“‘Chelo' is the nickname for ‘Consuelo.'”

“Consuelo?”

Consolation. He wasn't even sure he knew the meaning in English. Except “consolation prize,” not something a mother would name her kid. He kissed her spine through her nightgown. “And what does
consuelo
mean?”

Chelo buried her head in his chest and whispered, “This.”

Anna woke up naked and hungover, sprawled on a bed she did not recognize. Gregorian chants had been replaced by the buzz of a black fly. The sun was up. Her backpack lay on the floor. Her clothes were folded over a chair. On a bedside table, toothbrush, toothpaste, aspirin. She used all of them. Her head hurt. She tried to remember. The hotel. The spiral staircase. The Furies. Outside, the burr of a motor cut out. Workmen doing something. She figured out where she was, but had no memory of arriving. Anna had always told herself drinking was her father's problem, not hers, but she was starting to wonder about the size of that particular inheritance. She guzzled water, fell back asleep.

—

The second time Anna woke,
Thomas was kneeling at her bedside. His eyes looked brighter than usual, almost kindly, or maybe triumphant. The gray tufts at his temples shot up like flames from a disposable lighter. Pots crashed about the kitchen. Soledad.

“How did I get here?” Anna asked.

“I rescued you. Do you remember?”

Anna draped her arm over her forehead. The pressure helped a little. “Not much. I was so tired.”

“You were so drunk. You stole trinkets from a display case at the nicest hotel in Oaxaca and then passed out in the upstairs chapel. The hotel was going to press charges, but I slipped them some cash. They were happy to avoid the embarrassment of arresting an American guest. I drove you home and you attacked me with gratefulness. Being a gentleman, I reciprocated, though I put my marriage in grave peril.”

His hand brushed her stomach and breasts.

“Thomas!” Constance shouted. Thomas sighed, pulled back.

“Wait. Why did the hotel call you?” Despite her best efforts to extract herself, all roads circled back to Thomas Malone.

“Don't you remember?” He pressed his thumb on her chin. “You listed Constance as your emergency contact.”

—

Anna dressed
. A car pulled into the driveway. She peeked out the window. Police. Thomas greeted the two officers, nodding. She snuck out to the hallway window, which had a better view. What was all this
about? Who cared? It was Sunday. In twenty-four hours, she would be flying home with the death mask. All she had to do was find a hotel room at the airport. Hunker down for the night where no tiger could find her.

The day was hot already. She slipped off her cardigan, unzipped her backpack, then panicked.
God, no, please.
She thrashed through her things, dread rising, rising, flapjacking around her insides. It wasn't what she saw that horrified her, but what she didn't see. The death mask was gone.

If he was going to Mexico, he needed a suitcase. Daniel Ramsey gripped the banister, planting each foot with care. Steady on his feet. Just fine. The basement had gotten cluttered over the years. Rusty patio furniture, outdated appliances, and the biggest squatter of all: forty-two boxes, numbered, stacked in rows on flats, the entire Ramsey Collection.

Well,
there's your museum.

Miraculously, his suitcase was where he remembered it. He pulled it down, tested the wheels. Somewhere in this mess was his Mexican travel gear, money belt, walking stick. He pushed a box aside, feeling his patience for this particular quest drain. He would rather be upstairs with a fresh drink. Any second he was going to hurt his back. A bin of Christmas cards, another of clothes, then a box labeled
OAXACA
.

His travel notebooks were inside. His past, his life with Rose, his
trips, his purchases. Ever since he'd received the Met's letter, he had debated reading his journals, but had been too angry, too afraid.

But now . . . He reached in his hip pocket for his flask, just touched it, assured by its presence.

He opened the box, pulled a chair under the light. The first notebook was dated 1995, three years after Rosie died. He'd been on a tear, racing through Mexico, as if movement could bring her back.

Spent the last week in Pinotepa National. López family. Bought two decent Moor masks. Overpaid but didn't have stomach to bargain. Left my card, and Jorge, the son, promised to keep an eye out. Malone and I are traveling together. He is introducing me around as El Coleccionista and having a good laugh about it, meanwhile his “chapel” must be packed to the gills. Promises to give me a tour someday. Not holding my breath. He's been flirting with every waitress under thirty, leaving bills on the edge of the table. I pretend not to notice. He's always been lousy to women. Amazing Constance puts up with him. Tomorrow, San Juan del Monte. Following Gonzáles tip on elusive Centurion masks . . . Ah, drinks have arrived. Malone is buying . . .

Daniel Ramsey squinted the past into focus. He kept reading.

Rodríguez had only one Centurion left, in his family for a century. Malone and I argued over it, but he backed down. I overpaid, perhaps, but it was a remarkable mask, wildly imaginative. Rodríguez sensed our enthusiasm and
asked five times what I've paid for any mask this trip. Malone pouted, but I sense it was a play for sympathy. Gonzáles had been feeding me tips, says he prefers to work with me, which I understand, as Malone is difficult and sometimes too cheap to pay for quality masks. The craftsmanship on the Centurion is astounding. Later, Malone conceded I'd gotten a steal.

He stood, opened the suitcase, dumped the notebooks inside, zipped it closed, staggered up the stairs, careful not to fall. In the living room, he poured himself a vodka, sank into his armchair to read.

After an hour, the pattern was clear. After two hours, no doubt remained. He had been duped, but not by Mexican carvers.

Outside, the sky was up to no good. Snow maybe, or freezing rain. Daniel Ramsey's hands trembled as he opened his desk drawer and reached for his passport.