Water from My Heart (24 page)

W
e returned to the
casa
in time to pick up Isabella from school. Paulo and I quickly loaded up and returned to the well, where he patted me on the back and once again dropped me in the hole with a smile that spoke volumes. Before I kicked my feet loose, suspending myself over the hole, a crowd had gathered. Kids. Old folks. And it'd grown. Paulo said, “Word spread. Gringo digging Alejandro's well.”

I worked through the afternoon, robotically filling buckets and driving the hammer down into the mud and rock as deeply as I could in such a tight space with limited swing arc. My headlamp was growing dim. As was I. Between the sugarcane, the heat, and this well, I was tired.

Around dinner—or to be more honest when I couldn't lift that hammer one more time—I tugged twice and Paulo lifted me to the top, where he patted me on the back approvingly. It'd been a good day. I'd dug another twelve feet.

After dinner, Paulo gave me the information I'd requested and even told me he'd been able to secure my seat at the table. I didn't speak with Paulina before I left, knowing that her look of disapproval would affect my ability.

I arrived in León forty-five minutes later and hunted around until I found the restaurant where the game was played. La Playa was an upscale restaurant in León. White tablecloths. Waiters with starched shirts. The works. The restaurant had a private room around back entered via a staircase. I parked the bike just below the stairs and noticed Colin's HiLux parked in the shadows along the fence. I climbed the steps and a young man in a suit and sunglasses, which he didn't need at 9:00 p.m., stepped in front of me. He pointed around front and said nothing. I said, “Poker? Card game?” and pointed to the door behind him.

“Su nombre?”

“Charlie.”

He held out a hand and said, “Five grand.”

I placed $5,000 in his hand.

He nodded approvingly and moved aside. I stepped into the smoke-filled room to find seven men sitting in a circle around a large table. Two scantily clad women were serving drinks while a third sat on the lap of the most puffed-up man in the place. Apparently the foreman. High off his win from the week prior, he had returned the conquering hero. I didn't know anything about his ability to play, and even less about his ability to cheat, but I knew his arrogance was my asset. I was here because I wanted two things: information about Zaul and Colin's truck.

Being the “new guy” and speaking little Spanish, the crowd of regulars nodded at me and spoke in Spanish—solely. I was ripe for the picking and they, a pack of wolves, smelled fresh meat.

I played dumb, lost early, and fit the description of “ignorant gringo” to a T. The liquor flowed, laughter ensued, and for three hours, I lost several thousand dollars. As did many of the other players. No one at the table was an especially good cardplayer, but the foreman was an exceptionally good cheater—which meant they were going to lose anyway.

A few hours in, the foreman was rolling in chips and the three “girls” were taking turns either sitting on his lap or rubbing his shoulders. One by one, and with some help from me that he didn't realize, the table dwindled. One of the men turned out to be the chief of police. Another was the mayor. By midnight, we were down to three players. The foreman, myself, and the restaurant owner, who was the biggest loser of the night and too stupid or prideful for his own good.

Pretty soon, I realized they were speaking about me and, I felt, making a comparison between me and another player. Presumably Zaul. If I had envisioned obtaining any information, I was misled. They spoke about as much English as I spoke Spanish. But the truck was still in play.

At 1:00 a.m., I quit losing chips, put the restaurant owner against the ropes, and took everything he had in three hands. The foreman watched me out of the corner of his eye, but he'd had so many drinks by this time that I knew he was foggy. And while the number of players at the table had dwindled, no one had gone home. Each had lost some or all of $5,000, so no one was eager to get home. That meant that we at the table had an audience of eleven other people. The dealer. Six other players. The three girls. And the guard. When I finished with the restaurant owner, the foreman switched to water and asked for a cold rag.

By 2:00 a.m., we were even, and by 2:30 a.m., he was swimming in doubt. I had twice as many chips, and he was sweating despite the air-conditioning. Close to 3:00 a.m., I shoved; he went all in and my straight beat him on the river when the dealer dropped a king.

Beaten, embarrassed, and broke, his eyes narrowed and he cussed me. I smiled—which only made him more angry, which was exactly what I was hoping. I needed him mad if he was going to risk that truck.

I cashed in my chips with the dealer, placed a thick wad of cash in my pocket, and stood as if to leave, paying him absolutely no attention whatsoever. When I did, he sat back, slammed down an empty glass, and spoke loud enough for the room to hear. I didn't understand what he said, but every eye in the place was looking at me. He said it a second time. This time louder.
“Doble o nada.”

While I had a pretty good idea what he was saying, I shrugged as though I did not.
“No hablo español.”

The guard stepped forward. “Double or nothing.”

I laughed mockingly, keeping my eye on the foreman. “With what?” I patted my pocket. The message was clear. I had his money.

The foreman, looking to save face and praying for one more lucky hand, which he was not going to get, stared around the room, making sure he had everyone's attention, and then with great machismo, reached into his pocket and dropped the truck keys on the table. That was his version of throwing down the gauntlet.

And it accomplished exactly what he wanted—it got everyone's attention. One by one, they inched their chairs closer to the table. All eyes on me.

I shrugged, as if I didn't know what vehicle the keys fit. To suggest that I hadn't heard the story. That his fame hadn't reached me.

I pointed at the keys and then shook my head at the parking lot as if I didn't know. The foreman waved off the guard, who propped open the door, descended the steps, and cranked the HiLux. When he returned, I said, “What's it worth?”

He looked at my pocket. “All.”

Actually, it wasn't, but I didn't argue with him. I wanted the stakes higher because I was not only about to take his truck, I was going to take his reputation—and consequently, his power.

I also had a feeling that he'd paid off the dealer. Too many hands had gone his way. That meant that the flop, turn, and river would “tell” me what hand they'd predetermined to play.

When the dealer set to deal, I waved a hand and said, “No.” Then I turned to the owner and said, “You deal?”

I knew he wasn't happy with me, but he wasn't happy with the foreman either so his deal would be as fair as any. A vein popped out on the foreman's temple, throbbing like a balloon, but wanting to save face, he backed off.

Because the bets were already made, there was no reason to check, push, or raise. We knew what was at risk. Everyone around the table knew. The owner dealt us two cards apiece. Then he laid down the flop, a king of diamonds, followed by a pause. Then the turn, a four of spades, followed by an even longer pause. Finally, he laid down the river—an ace of hearts. Sweat was dripping off the foreman's dark eyebrows. Seeing the third card, the foreman smiled, showing stained teeth and bloodshot eyes. It had been a long night and it was about to get longer. Breathing easier, he sat back and lit a cigar, drawing deeply and filling the air around us in a haze of smoke. As there was no need to bluff, I knew he had to be sitting, at least, on a pair of aces.

Lucky.

The dealer asked to see our hands, and the foreman slowly laid down a seven of hearts and an ace—giving my ugly friend a pair of aces.

Very lucky. Also predictable.

I kept my eyes on the foreman because I wanted to see his reaction. Even on a rigged Tuesday night game.

When I laid down my cards—king, ace—he turned ashen and began spitting venom at me because two pair beats one every day. I couldn't understand the curse words coming out of his mouth, but I had a feeling he was cursing not only me, but the five or six generations behind me.

I hefted the keys in my hand—giving him one last look—and then slid them into my pocket. Spittle had gathered in the corner of his mouth. I had not taken time to count it, but having started with eight people at $5,000 each meant I had $40,000 cash in my pocket. Wanting to add insult to injury, I removed the fat wad from my pocket and counted out $10,000—my $5,000 and the foreman's $5,000. This got everyone's attention in the room, but what really got their attention was when I handed $30,000 to the restaurant owner and told him to “give it back to everyone but him.” Interestingly, everyone's English improved miraculously, and they understood me well enough to know exactly what I'd said.

The foreman stood, slammed his drink glass against the wall, and stormed out—without any of the girls. I think his good thing had just come to an end and he knew it. I wasn't naive enough to think I'd just made a roomful of friends but they certainly weren't my enemies, and I'll bet if I'd wanted dinner right then, the owner of the restaurant would have cooked it for me.

When I pulled in behind the house with the bike tied down in the truck bed and parked next to the chicken coop, I stepped out and a weary shadow appeared from next to the mango tree. It was Paulina. She'd been sitting in a plastic chair, leaning against the tree. She pushed the hair out of her eyes and flipped it a couple of times, tying it in a knot. “I guess you won.”

“Yes.”

She ran her fingers along the sides of the truck. “The foreman was there?”

I nodded.

“Did you shame him?”

I paused. “Yes.”

She stepped closer. “Badly?”

I tilted my head side to side. “That's one way to put it.”

“That may not bode well for the people that work for him.” One of the things I'd grown to appreciate about Paulina in the short time that I'd known her was her fierce protection of those she loved. “Were others there?”

“The owner of the restaurant where we played, the chief of police, and the mayor, to name a few.”

She shook her head. “Charlie, people know you're here.” She looked exasperated. “You stick out. People like the foreman will take out on us what you inflict on him. There are ripple effects. You can't take like that from people around here.”

“Then they shouldn't risk it.”

“You're preying on them.”

I didn't answer.

“Did you cheat?”

“No, I got lucky with the cards. But you should know that I would have. I wouldn't hesitate.”

“Learn anything about Zaul?”

“No.”

She shook her head and walked toward the house. “Sun'll be up in a few hours.”

U
nlike most of the women I'd known, Paulina did not own many articles of clothing, and what she did have she wore several days in a row. As best I could tell, she had three pairs of shoes: running shoes that looked several years old, flip-flops that had been taped back together, and a pair of sandals, which doubled as her “dress shoes.”

She woke me yet again with coffee and a smile. Flip-flops and yesterday's dress. She set the coffee down and pulled a chair up next to the bed. “You want to walk me back through that poker game last night?”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Based on our last conversation, I wasn't sure where this was going, so I wanted to offer as little as possible.

She continued, “You left out a few details.”

“Such as?”

She crossed her legs. “How you won all the money and then gave it all back to the losers—save one.”

I sipped, trying not to make eye contact.

She stood. “Word is that you're crazy.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you have your reasons that reason doesn't understand.”

“Paulina, I'm not trying to prey on these people. I'm trying to find Zaul.”

She nodded. “We might be closer than you think.” She walked out, talking over her shoulder. She was chuckling. “Breakfast was delivered this morning.”

I splashed my face and walked into the kitchen, where Paulo was beaming over a cup of coffee. He pointed to two bags on the floor and a cage outside that was clucking. One bag was full of mangoes. The other was full of coffee. The cage contained twelve chickens.

Paulina pointed. She was giddy. “Laying hens.” Her face lit. “Do you know how long it's been since we owned chickens? Chickens mean eggs! Every morning.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Where'd they come from?”

“Your friends at the coffee plantation.”

“What?”

Paulina stepped toward me—into my personal space—put her hand on my shoulder, and kissed me tenderly on the cheek. Paulo was nodding and smiling larger.

“What's that for?”

She explained, “The foreman did not come to work this morning. Seems someone exposed him as a first-class cheat. Given that he took a lot of money from several high-ranking officials, chances are likely that he won't ever return.”

“What's that got to do with me?”

“Conditions in the plantation mirror the foreman. If he sneezes, the entire plantation gets a cold. If he smiles, everyone laughs. If he's gone, they take a deep breath and throw a party.”

We dropped Isabella at school, and the three of us took Colin's truck to the coast. I let Paulo drive. Paulina leaned forward from the backseat and whispered in my ear, “It's been a long time since I've seen him so happy.” I handed him my Costas, which he accepted and wore proudly.

We returned due west to the coast to an inlet on the beach where several companies ferried surfers to offshore reefs to surf waves often reaching twenty feet in prime conditions.

Like yesterday. Palm trees dotted the dunes and a frayed hammock rocked between two. An American guy was sitting in an old Ford van topped with eight surfboards of varying lengths. He was reading a paperback novel. Led Zeppelin spilling from the speakers. Long bleached hair. Bronzed skin. Skin and bones. Bare feet propped on the dash. Life was good, but currently slow.

He hopped out of his van when we pulled up. “Help you?” he asked.

I showed him Zaul's picture. “Seen this kid?”

He studied it, finally nodding. “Yeah. Yesterday.”

“Where?”

He pointed at the swaying hammock. “Right there.”

“Talk to him?”

He shook his head. “No. I took his four friends”—he pointed toward the reef—“out for a few hours. Gnarly action. Epic.”

“He didn't go with you?”

“Nope. Lay right there.” He placed his hand on his rib cage. “Dude was hurt. Took a spill or something. Walking pretty slow. Limping around. No shape to surf.”

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. When we got back, he was gone.”

“Where'd he go?”

“No idea. His buddies didn't know, either. They seemed happy to be rid of him. No love lost there.”

That meant the money had run out. “Any idea where they're staying?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

I strode over to the hammock, and while I couldn't find anything that belonged to Zaul, one thing stuck out. Blood. Soaked through the fabric and caked on the right side of the hammock. And a good bit of it, too. Paulo rubbed his finger across it and smelled it. Paulina looked concerned but said nothing. We drove the coastline until lunch but discovered nothing. Paulina checked in with the hospital in León, but no patient had checked in fitting either Zaul's description or wound.

We returned to the house at lunch. Feeling helpless and knowing I could do nothing to help Zaul, we drove Colin's truck to the plantation, where we were met by a smiling and growing crowd. More than a hundred waited in line. She turned to me. “Looks like you have a fan club.”

“Why?”

“They want to meet the man who did to the foreman what they always wished they could.”

“Which was?”

“Shame him.”

Paulina began examining the people in line while Paulo uncoiled the rope and held out my harness. I buckled in and descended into my hole, spending the afternoon digging, worried about Zaul and wondering how I would explain to his mother how I found him dead in a ditch. Or worse, didn't find him at all.

Paulo pulled me out at dark, when I discovered the crowd had not abated, but grown. Torches lit the night. Paulina was talking to a young mother and rocking a sleeping baby. When I climbed out, they inched closer. Paulo patted me on the back and showed me the rope. Fifteen feet. He nodded. “Good dig.”

While the crowd watched from a safe distance, Anna Julia, the woman whose tooth I pulled last week, walked forward smiling a nearly toothless smile. She held out her hand and placed a single piece of hard candy in my palm, then closed my fingers around it and patted my hand.

I didn't want to get Colin's truck dirty, so I climbed into the back of the bed while Paulo turned the truck around. As he did, people began climbing on or getting in the vehicle. One by one, the men slung themselves up with the gringo while the older women or nursing mothers climbed in the backseat. By the time Paulo began rolling down the bumpy six-mile road, there were nine mothers in the cab with Paulo and eighteen men sitting with me on the rails or just standing in the back of the truck. Each talked to me, speaking in fast Spanish—none of which I understood. What I did understand, what I interpreted completely, was Paulina's laughter spilling out of the windows up front.

When I was studying in London, Amanda and I took a weekend trip to Vienna to hear the Three Tenors. Specifically Pavarotti. I'm not much of an opera fan, but when that man sang “Nessun Dorma,” something in me responded, awakened, that had been asleep for all of my life prior. When he opened his lungs and belted out that last high C, there was a voice inside me that despite the fact that I can't sing my way out of a wet paper bag wanted to. I wanted to stand up on that stage and sing with all that I am. I wanted to join that man. Join my voice with his. Not because I could or would have added anything. Certainly, I wouldn't have. I'd only have taken away, but that's not the point. The point is, I wanted to. That “wanting to” was the effect of that man and his song on my soul. Julie Andrews had the same effect, which might explain why Maria and I shared so much from
The Sound of Music
.

I've only had that response one other time in my life, and it was coming down that mountain in the back of that truck, covered in volcanic mud, surrounded by a bunch of sweaty Nicaraguans I couldn't understand, and listening to the most beautiful laughter I'd ever heard coming out of the front seat.

If ever a soul was alive, it was hers. There. In that moment. When her soul sang.

In my entire life, I don't ever remember crying. I may have shed a tear or two, but I'm talking about crying—tears dripping from a heart that feels. I did not cry when my dad died. Not when my mom died. Not when I lost Amanda. Not when Hack died. Not when I lost Shelly. Not when Maria cried out to me from the hospital bed. Not ever. The part in me that felt, where my soul and my emotions crossed, had been disconnected from the part that poured. Tears have to be broken loose and mine had not been.

Until my ride down that mountain.

Whether it was my helplessness regarding Zaul or Maria or Hack or Shelly or the emptiness that had become my life…I rode, moonlight shining down, wind in my face, a stream of tears cascading down my cheeks. I wouldn't call them tears of joy or sorrow. I don't really know what to call them. I just know that they flowed out of an emotive response—they carried with them a feeling or emotion or something and that something was aimed at someone other than me. The proof lies in the source. They did not fall from my head. They poured up and out of my heart.

Big difference.

I rode those six glorious miles, shoulder to shoulder with a truck bed full of men who would do well to take a shower and put on some deodorant, but to be honest, I don't know if I was smelling me or them. Oddly, that thought never crossed my mind. I blended in. What struck me was a feeling, and it was a feeling I'd possibly never known. It was the feeling of something in me coming clean. That ride bathed me in laughter, in moonlight, in my own tears, and in the singular and surprising thought that maybe my cold, dead, calloused heart wasn't as cold and dead as I'd long believed it to be. The type of bath I needed—that my heart craved, that could wash off the stain of me—was not of water acquired from an external source, that came from a bucket or tub or even the kind that you dove into, but water that rose up from a source on the inside.

My life had been characterized by emptiness the size of the Sahara but there, in that moment, in the back of that truck in the armpit of Nicaragua, I wondered—for the first time—if there wasn't a river flowing down deep inside me.

If so, the water that would cleanse me was not water from my head—where I'd learned to rationalize my indifference.

But water from my heart.