The Return: A Novel (46 page)

He stood there for a moment, thinking about the last day and judgment and resurrection, a confused welter of thought skirting madness, for who could really believe all that stuff? And who could really believe the opposite?

“My heart, loyal, atones in the darkness,” said Marder, a line of Velarde from a poem she’d loved, and he thought of the billion contingencies of life. Had Velarde never written, had Marder not found that dusty book and wooed her with half-understood poems, would he be standing here with her ashes? Another route to madness. Or faith: he walked out into the glare of the sun.

He took a few steps, and it seemed to him that he was looking down a tunnel, like the one he’d cut through the Laotian forest. He was alone; perhaps the people had vanished or had left him, perhaps they saw him as he really was and were appalled and had fled him as from a leper. There was a great Montezuma cypress there, the
ahuehuete
, sacred to the rulers of ancient Mexico. He walked toward it, stumbling a little on the gravel, and its branches reached out, dark and terrible like the fingers of the old gods. There was a sound now; the gravel was surprisingly comfortable as he listened, some kind of animal in pain—perhaps they were slaughtering hogs. But it was also vaguely familiar. There was something tugging at him; perhaps the cypress wanted to take him into its boughs. This was one thought in Marder’s disintegrating brain, and the other was that Mr. Thing had made himself known at last, and Marder could not help agreeing that the guy had a terrific sense of timing. Marder waited for them to switch the white light on in the tunnel; he waited to hear the choirs of angels, the beckoning figure.

But in the event, no angels, only that voice. He’d heard it before, a quiet one in his head, but clearly not of his own production, like a remark heard in a dark theater from a stranger: ordinary, terrifying because of its simple banality, its inarguable existence. It said,
It’s all right. You’ll be fine.

Marder was aware first of pain as he came up from wherever he’d been, the pain in his throat, and it also came to him that the sound he’d been hearing was his own voice, howling. He listened to the howl for a few more seconds and then there didn’t seem to be a need to howl anymore. He opened his eyes. The tunnel was gone and his field of vision was full of his daughter’s face, haloed like an angel’s by the shafts of sun coming down through the dark foliage of the
ahuehuete
. Her dusty cheeks had bright runnels cut by tears. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“Are you okay now?”

“She’s dead,” said Marder.

“I know, Dad. It’s been three years.”

“Three minutes,” said Marder. “Are you furious with me now, like Peter?”

“No. I was a
little
furious when I heard you tell Father Santana about being guided by angels in Vietnam. That was a story I could’ve used when I was growing up. You didn’t say you were this hero.”

“It wasn’t like that. Skelly’s the Special Forces hero.”

“But
you
saved
him
. And he got the credit and the medal.”

“I didn’t want the medal and he did. What does it matter now, anyway?”

“I hate secrets. I despise not knowing what’s going on. Don’t you get that at long last?”

“I do, and I’m sorry. Speaking of secrets, are you ready to tell me how you found out where I was?”

“Obviously I hacked into Nina Ibanez’s email. I thought you were hiding down here in a love nest with her.”

“I thought you didn’t care who I boffed.”

“I don’t, with that exception. I’m sorry, it’s totally irrational. But as I stand here, I can tell you that if you were here with her, after what happened to Mom, I couldn’t be friends with you. I would have to agree with Peter.”

“Yes, I would too.”

Marder got to his feet, feeling terribly old and not only in his back. He walked slowly to the car, arm in arm with his daughter. He stopped and placed his hand on her shoulder. Looking into her eyes, he said, “Carmelita. You remember we used to call you that, before Statch?”

“Yeah. When I was a kid I hated the name, for obvious reasons. They used to call me ‘Caramel,’ you know? A brown sticky substance that gets in your teeth. Statch is the right name for an oversized, gawky jock with peculiar Germano-Mexican features. Look, I’m sorry I blew up just now. It seems kind of silly given our current situation.”

“Yes, that situation. Part of me desperately wants you to get on that plane with Lourdes and fly out of here. I’m your father, and I’m supposed to protect you, but I can’t protect you. Maybe that’s an illusion we have to maintain, that we can protect our kids, otherwise no one could bear the pain of loving children. But, on the other hand, I’m incredibly proud of you, for what you’re doing here, for the sacrifice you’ve made, for what you’re doing for me and for our people.”

“I appreciate that, Dad, but, you know, I’m an adult; it’s my choice.”

“Yes, another illusion, maybe. The interaction of fate and choice, something I’ve been contemplating a great deal lately. And it’s something you might want to think about as you walk through the graveyard of your ancestors. It wasn’t only your mother I was howling about a minute ago, by the way. I was also thinking about what it would feel like to slide you into one of those square holes, and I thought that my very deepest prayer was that I would be too dead to do it.”

“Dad, come on, that’s just morbid.”

“For God’s sake, we’re
supposed
to be morbid. It’s the Day of the Dead.”

In this conversation they had switched without thought from English to Spanish, for in their family that tongue had always been the one in which grave things had their voice. He saw that his words had stung her and saw also, with relief, that she was abashed, that she was not going to withdraw in the way that American girls did when checked. He saw her turning more Mexican before his eyes.

“Anyway, there it is: I surrender you to your fate, the last gesture of fatherhood. Christ! First she learns how to walk, then how to read, then she goes out of the house alone, then she has sex … Everyone talks about the great transitions of the kid—they’re big deals—but nobody says what it does to the dad. There are no
quinceañeras
for the dad.”

“We could start a tradition,” she said and they both laughed, and thus relieved the unbearable pressure and they walked, joking about that, back to the car. In which no one mentioned the recent operatic performance, but resumed speaking on other topics as if nothing gigantic had just occurred. Marder was still in something of a daze, staring out the window, but he did see Angel d’Ariés getting into his pickup and he seemed to be talking into a cell phone.

Marder remembered that when they hit the roadblock. He had, of course, understood that it was a risk to invite Angel to the interment—the man had, after all, confessed that the Templos were his family—but strategy had not been uppermost in his mind. He’d thought it worthwhile to give Angel a chance to connect with a real family, he felt he owed that much to Chole. That no good deed goes unpunished was a cynical banality he’d heard often in New York, and it always made him want to snarl, So what? He’d been told all would be well as he lay in his agony on the gravel, and so he waited calmly for what God would send.

At a nameless hamlet, the bad guys had parked a big SUV athwart the road. Half a dozen or so pickups had been stationed in clumps along the roadside, and dozens of armed men stood there too, watching the VW roll to a stop. One of the men came forward and told everyone to get out of the van, and they did.

“This is very unusual,” the priest said to Marder. “My bus is considered neutral territory ordinarily. I take them to the hospital when they’re hurt and drive their families to their hideouts. But I don’t think we should worry. Besides, it’s the Day of the Dead.”

“I think they’re making an exception for me,” said Marder, and it was so. A man Marder recognized from his visit to the meth-lab
rancho
now led Marder away from the others to a tiny cantina, one room with a plank-and-barrel bar and three tables, at one of which sat El Gordo.

“Don Servando,” said Marder, nodding politely. “I’m happy to see you well.”

El Gordo gestured to a chair. “Sit, Don Ricardo. A beer for you?”

Marder said that would be nice, and a beer was brought. Marder drank from it deeply. His throat was still raw.

“We have a problem, my friend,” said El Gordo.

“I’m sure we can work it out. But this is a day when such problems are usually forgotten. We don’t indulge in violence on the Day of the Dead, or so I imagined.”

“No violence is being offered. We are merely two associates having a drink. We will use the holiday to clear up issues that may lead to violence in the future. No one could object to that.”

“No one could,” Marder agreed. “I would be honored to be of assistance. So what is your problem?”

“I want my guns and my product. This was our agreement, was it not, in exchange for my protection? And I have neither guns nor product, although I have kept you under my protection and even saved you from the hands of the Family.”

“I thought I had explained that, Don Servando. The Family raided the cargo container and stole the goods.”

“Yes, so you said. But my informants tell me that there was no such raid. And you must credit me with having informants in Don Melchor’s organization, as I’m sure he has his in mine. We used to be one body, as you know, and loyalties are mixed. My understanding is that the very weapons you promised me are at this moment emplaced on Isla de los Pájaros. And that you have Chinese mercenaries as well.”

“There are no Chinese mercenaries, sir. I can assure you of that. I have taken defensive measures, of course.”

“Against me?”

“Against everyone. Every man must protect what’s his, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely. These are perilous times and Mexico is not all it should be.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his keglike belly. His eyes showed amusement.

“You know, I like you, Señor Marder, I truly do. You are an interesting man and you are not afraid of me. Most of the people I come in contact with are either one or the other. Those who are not afraid of me, like those boys out there, are too stupid to be afraid of anything, and the interesting people are all frightened out of their wits, just because of who I am. I sincerely hope I don’t have to kill you.”

“I feel very much the same.”

The man smiled, showing remarkably white teeth. “Then we must always stay in close contact. My father used to say, hold your friends close but your enemies closer.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that too.”

“Still, I hope we can be friends, once this little matter is cleared up. There are depths to you that I wish to explore. For example, there are rumors flying about that you are with the authorities, that you have some sort of secret mission—the CIA, perhaps.”

Marder shrugged and said, “I’m a newcomer here. Newcomers always generate rumors.”

“But you deny this one.”

“Categorically. As I keep telling everyone, I am a retired editor from New York.”

“Then how is a retired editor going to arrange my murder? If necessary, of course.”

“I may have skills and resources not immediately apparent, as you’ve already learned.
My
father used to say everybody in a Santa Claus suit isn’t Santa Claus.”

El Gordo had a look of confusion—a familiar intercultural phenomenon—and then he laughed aloud and heartily.

“Very good! I will remember that one. Now, as to our current problem. You will drive back to your house and you will obtain for me what you have promised, for I do not for a moment believe that these are in the hands of La Familia. In the meantime, your daughter and your little girlfriend will remain with me, as my guests. The reporter and the priest do not interest me at present. I would expect to hear from you by, let us say, midnight tonight, telling me that my goods are ready to be transported. Failing that, I will come there and bring the girl, in a manner you will not like.”

“Well, I’m obliged to tell you that this would be a terrible mistake on your part. The child, by the way, is not my girlfriend—”

“Oh, nonsense! Do you think I’m a fool? All the world knows she’s your
chingada
.”

“—and all the world is mistaken. As for my daughter, I was under the impression that the Templos did not kidnap, and especially not women.”

“We do not. Therefore, if I don’t get what belongs to me, I will sell her to someone who does. I will sell her to El Cochinillo. See if you like dealing with him.”

Marder stood up and said, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this, Don Servando. I would be happy to arrange another shipment of the same items, at my own expense, and convey them to you as a gift.”

The big man rose slowly to his feet, took Marder by the shoulder, and brought his face close.

“That’s a generous offer, Señor, but to accept it would require that I trust you, do you see? And I don’t. There is nothing personal in this, you understand. In this part of the world, someone in my business must live without trust. It saddens me, but there it is.”

“Then you should find some other business, Don Servando. You could leave all this. God knows, you must have enough money salted away. You could go to a place where you could trust people and need not kidnap girls.”

“That is an excellent suggestion, but we can discuss my future career some other time. Now we are where we are, and I’ve told you what must happen and what will happen if not. It’s time for you to go.”

“I would like to say goodbye to my daughter first.”

“Of course. But you should say
hasta la vista
. I’m sure you will arrange it so that you see her again quite soon.”

19

As soon as she saw the roadblock and realized what was happening, Statch Marder took her grandfather’s Colt Woodsman out of her bag and shoved it in her waistband, in the small of her back, pulling her safari shirt out to cover it. When she got out of the van with the others, a
sicario
stepped up, demanded the handbags of the three women, and dumped their contents on the ground. There came a shout. A huge man strode across the street and berated the bag-spiller in colorful language, the burden of which was that the Templos did not abuse women, the Templos protected women, and he made the man pick up everything and give the bag back to Statch. He apologized to the señorita, nodding politely to her, smiled at Pepa and Lourdes, shook hands with the priest, and walked away.