The Girl Who Could Silence the Wind (8 page)

¡A
Y
!
T
HE TROUBLES
of a taxi boy had no end.

Pancho tried to think of anything but the throbbing at the side of his head, which made him feel lopsided as he guided his bike taxi along the street. One day pompous men like Señor Arenas would think twice about taking such liberties with him, he mused darkly. The nerve of it made him want to punch out blindly. One day no one would call him Pancho. They would say,
Ah, Francisco Muñoz, of course, he’s the famous poet from Tres Montes, the man who brings grown men to tears using only his pen! He is the president’s favorite entertainer!
Never again would anyone say,
Pancho the Orphan, bike-taxi driver, whose ears you can yank like bread dough.

He pedaled along the darkening streets, dodging dips and holes to keep Tía Neli comfortable. He had only been a full-time taxi boy for a few weeks, and while he was Señor Pasqual’s favorite worker, he had found it was not an easy job at all. To be a good taxi boy, one had to live by absolute rules. You had to be stronger than a mule to haul fat passengers without grunting. You needed large eyes to see where you were going and sensitive ears to overhear the private conversations in case a passenger had plans to rob you. But the mouth? Mute, mute, mute. No secret overheard was ever to be shared.

“You’re a taxi boy, not a parrot,” is how Señor Pasqual put it.

Luckily, prudent silence came easily to people who were used to being insignificant. It was not hard at all for an orphan to be discreet with all he learned about people on his many rides. It was quite easy to ignore the names of lovers arranging clandestine meetings at midnight. Simple to forget picking up the drunken chief of police from a bar’s doorstep.
Facilísimo
to close his ears to the many dark deals between men. He watched and listened and learned about surviving in the world, even in a tiny and seemingly simple place like Tres Montes.

In fact, he had only found it difficult to hold his tongue about two things in his entire life. One was his love for Sonia Ocampo, about whom he dreamed every night. Even awake, thoughts of her were distracting.

Why hadn’t he kissed her when he had the chance? If he had, maybe she wouldn’t be on a train going far away. Worse still, he had not come to see her off at the train station, and now, after discovering her letter, he was loathing himself. What if she never forgave him? Her letter filled his mind as he pedaled.

Pancho —

I carry you in my heart to the capital. While I’m gone, take care not to listen to anyone who tells you what you can and can’t be in life. It’s a terrible fate, Pancho, one that both of us have to escape. If it’s a poet you dream of becoming, then a poet you will be. Don’t forget: You promised you would recite one of your poems for me.

Until we are together under our tree again . . .

Love from Sonia Ocampo

Love,
he thought.
Love from Sonia Ocampo.

The words made his heart pound. What would he have said to her if he
had
gone to the train station?

For here was the second thing that he had ever found hard to keep from saying. It was a secret that would have clawed at his lips when he saw her. Alas, a taxi boy with large eyes and acute ears learns even the most dangerous plans of those he ferries here and there as they chase their dreams in the night.

And one of those young men had been none other than Rafael Ocampo.

“H
ERE
?” T
ÍA
N
ELI
looked around skeptically. “You want me to go in here? Alone? What kind of madman are you?”

Pancho had stopped in front of La Jalada, a dark establishment at the end of town. The stench of whiskey reached to where they stood on the street. Two sleeping drunks slumped like bookends on either side of the doorway.

“
¿Sola?
Not in a million years,
señora.
” He stepped off his bike and offered his elbow gallantly. “I will escort you.”

“You’ll tell me this instant why we’re here,” she said, unimpressed.

Pancho thought of the taxi-boy code of silence. Such a bother at times like this! “Do you mind if we at least get ice first,
señora
? In truth, my ear is killing me. Why, I can barely hear you!”

Tía Neli took his muscled arm and held her nose as she followed him inside.

Everyone knew that Conchita Fo, proprietor of La Jalada, had been fatally beautiful once. A singer in her youth, she had traveled to the capital and beyond, to cities far and wide in the North, enchanting men of every nation and leaving the resulting green-eyed children scattered along the way. She sold her deep voice for as long as she had been able to hold a tune. But time, drink, and a string of trouble with the law had left her with only La Jalada to her name —
that
and the distinction of knowing the secrets of more or less every man between Tres Montes and the capital. Even now, her figure could stir the longings of the many men who visited her establishment, including the taxi boys who came looking for fares or scraps of food. They could not help staring guiltily at her narrow waist, the seductive dip at the back of her neck. The plunge of her neckline made them wonder.

Conchita sat at the bar. She turned her shrewd eyes to Tía Neli and Pancho and let out a long plume of cigarette smoke in their direction.

“Look who’s here, Mongo,” she said to her tattooed barkeep. “Your favorite diversion.”

The massive man looked up from the counter he was buffing and flashed a frightening smile. Mongo’s teeth were all filed to sharp points, and a sleeve of tattooed flames rose along his arms and ended at his thick neck. He was frightful at first glance, but Pancho knew better. Mongo had once been an orphan himself, and all orphans knew about the loneliness of living like a parasite. So Mongo could be counted on for leftover snacks in exchange for one of Pancho’s stories, especially if the tale involved knives — his passion.

“A new tale today, Pancho?” he asked. “Grab a stool.”

“I’m afraid not this time, Mongo,” Pancho replied. “Actually,
la señora
and I have come on important business.”

Conchita Fo turned to them and regarded Tía Neli coldly. “Let me guess: You’re looking for your man. Well, you can see he’s not here, unless he’s one of those two, in which case, you have my condolences.” She pointed at the drunks. “If not, come back a little later. You can never tell who might turn up.”

Tía Neli’s mouth fell open, and her cheeks grew crimson.

“I happen to be a widow,” she said. “And I can assure you, my husband wouldn’t have ever come here. He was a decent man, who had the bad luck to be killed in a mine collapse. He never touched a drop of liquor in his life.”

“What did you say your name is?” Conchita Fo asked.

“I didn’t, but it’s Neli Ocampo de Arroyo.”

Conchita thought for a moment and smiled to show her perfectly white teeth.

“Of course. Guillermo Arroyo’s woman,” she said, as if they’d known each other all their lives. “We all miss him terribly.”

“A million pardons,
señora,
” Pancho said quickly before a clash of insults could dash his plan to pieces. “May I trouble someone for ice?”

Mongo stopped what he was doing and frowned. He gave Tía Neli a suspicious look as he popped two dirty ice cubes from a plastic tray.

“Next time, you break their nose first,” he whispered, pressing them against the side of Pancho’s head. “No matter who it is.”

“Thanks, Mongo.”

“It’s my nephew we are here about,” Tía Neli said. “Rafael Ocampo. Do you know him?”

Conchita Fo chuckled. “So. You are the family of that darling specimen? Lucky you to be a relation! Such a handsome young buck is hard to forget. Has he considered being in the cinema?”

Tía Neli straightened her shoulders. “Have you any idea where he might be? We are crazy with worry trying to locate him.”

“¿Quién yo?”
Conchita looked with feigned surprise at Mongo. “She acts as though men tell me their secrets!”

“Arenas suggested that Rafael has gone north,” Tía Neli persisted. “Do you know if it’s true?”

“
El norte.
Everyone loves the idea.” Conchita sighed. “I spent years there entertaining my faithful public and for what? It is as brutal a place as any,
señora,
for those of us cursed with humble beginnings. Look at me. Right back where I started.”

“Well, taking a risk might be better than starving,” Tía Neli said.

Conchita took a long drag of her cigarette. “Some would say that,
señora.
Of course, those of us who stay behind aren’t the ones who are bending our backs to work, are we? We are — what do we call it? — the beneficiaries of their sacrifice.” Her eyes traveled along the fancy lace of Tía Neli’s collar.

Pancho could hear Tía Neli’s teeth grinding. He scrambled between them just in time.

“Excuse me for speaking,” he said. “But look! I have found something here on the floor,
señora.
I’m very sure it’s yours.”

He smiled and pressed the only bill he had earned that day into Conchita Fo’s hand. “Forgive me for interrupting. Go on. You were about to tell
la señora
about her nephew.”

Conchita let out six perfect smoke rings and stubbed out her cigarette as they floated through the air. Pancho watched Mongo carefully; he was buffing the same spot a bit too ferociously.

“I heard some men talking about a trip,” Conchita said with a shrug. “He might have been among them. I can’t recall exactly.”

Tía Neli planted her feet. “Who were those men?” she whispered, leaning in.

“Now, how would my customers like it if their secrets were shared with anyone who came asking? Don’t put me in such a position,
señora.
It’s bad business.”

Tía Neli’s face was mere inches from Conchita Fo’s. “The men’s names,
por favor.
” It sounded like a threat.

“Heavens,
señora
!” Pancho interrupted again. “I almost forgot!” He held up his lucky silver piece and placed it on the bar, without a second thought about how he would miss its comforting weight in his pocket. “To your continued beauty and good fortune!”

Conchita patted Pancho’s face sweetly and tucked the coin in her bosom with a flourish. “All I can tell you is this,” she said, turning to Tía Neli once again. “He left here with a man who barely knows what he’s doing. These are dangerous times for an inexperienced man to bring boys across,
señora.
Anything can happen crossing the Haunted Valley — you know that. That’s how we get dead boys tossed out on the road.” She signed the cross over herself.

“Pancho!”

The sharp voice echoed inside the empty bar. At the door was the silhouette of Armando, a younger
taxista.
He was perspiring and panting.

“I’ve been crazy looking for you! Good thing I saw your bike outside.”

“What is it, then?” Pancho asked, racing for the door.

Armando stared at the swollen mass at the side of Pancho’s head. “What’s wrong with your ear?”

“Never mind that!”

Armando shrugged and pointed at the dirty clock over the door. “Señor Pasqual needs you at the mayor’s house in thirty minutes, hands and feet washed. There’s a party.”

“Forgive me,
señora,
” Pancho told Tía Neli. “I must go at once. May I take you home?”

By the time Tía Neli arrived at her door, her face was crumpled with grief.

“Stay calm,
señora,
” Pancho told her. “You never know what is coming around the bend. Perhaps a solution lies up ahead on our path.”

Tía Neli shook her head sadly. “Go on, Pancho. You’ll be late, and you shouldn’t keep the mayor waiting. This is in the hands of God now.”

Moments later he was careening down the mountain, his mind whirling as fast as his wheels.

In God’s hands? Or would a taxi boy’s hands have to do?