The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (89 page)

“They know all about your husband in Mexico City,” Bartolomeo had continued with his familiar smile. Alegría knew his tricks. She laughed. She would tell Bartolomeo herself.

“He wears a bulletproof vest to bed. The Mercedes is armored. Two cars—bodyguards—one goes before, one goes behind.”

“Oh, not
that!”
Bartolomeo said with a wave of his hand. “We are talking about a
business relationship
—the general—”

“You Cubans! You’re crazy!
Of course,
there’s a business relationship! That’s public knowledge!” Alegría had sent the sales clerks home early when she saw Bartolomeo walk through the door; her excuse had been the inventory report.

Alegría and Bartolomeo wandered through the brass lamps, leather armchairs, massive sofas, and rolls of expensive wool carpeting imported from all over the world. As Bartolomeo gazed at her interior-decorator’s shop, she could see his upper lip slowly begin to curl into a sneer.
“Haute
bourgeois!” Bartolomeo said, pronouncing the last word slowly as he looked her in the eye.

“What do you want?” Alegría said in a hard, low voice; she was beginning to hate this man.

“What do you have?” Bartolomeo was always smiling, always cocksure.

“I’m locking up now. I’m expected at home.”

“ ‘Expected at home.’ How nice. How respectable.”

Alegría could feel her heart pounding. She had never felt hatred so purely before. If she had had a gun close by, she would have killed him on the spot. Her anger had always aroused Bartolomeo. She could see his face change, his eyes glisten as he moved toward her. “Too bad you didn’t explode with the others—it’s funny how they died but you didn’t! I hope they kill you here!” she hissed. But Bartolomeo was unconcerned with insults or accusations. He was the first to admit he had saved his own hide and the others were expendable. Bartolomeo merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “To have you, my plum,
this instant,
I would gladly die later!” Alegría saw he was scheming to get her near one of the beds. “Go stick it in an Indian!” Alegría hissed through her teeth. She was thinking too bad she couldn’t alert the police chief and the general about Bartolomeo’s presence because she could imagine how much they would enjoy interrogating this communist. Too bad, but she was not well liked in Tuxtla; the authorities would likely take the Cuban’s word over hers; too bad, but Bartolomeo could link her to the Mexico City group.

After Bartolomeo left the store, Alegría had been too shaky to dial the phone for a cab. She poured herself straight shots of rum from a bottle she kept at the store for her nerves. Menardo got on her nerves. The Indian chauffeur, Tacho, got on her nerves. Menardo was obsessed with the bulletproof vest. He wore it to bed; for all she knew, he wore it in the bath and shower. Alegría had heard the general’s wife whisper to the police chief’s wife about Menardo. The whole town had begun to suspect one another. Menardo had had visitors from the United States. The former ambassador had also had visitors from the United States. The police chief not only had had visitors, he had got himself video cameras and equipment with promises of more to follow.

This town got on her nerves. Alegría found she had been thinking more and more about Sonny Blue in Tucson. Menardo kept safety deposit boxes full of gold and U.S. cash in Tucson. She did not like the
way Tacho watched her and everything that went on. Alegría was sure he was a spy.

Alegría more and more appreciated how much better the rum made her feel. Alcohol was important medicine for her. Tacho suspected her and Sonny Blue. Tacho might “interpret” one of Menardo’s dreams in such a way that Menardo would catch wind of the affair. Or Tacho might try blackmail.

Alegría no longer slept in Menardo’s bed. All night Menardo tossed and turned, jumping out of bed or sitting up in bed, muttering in his sleep. His nightmares were always about bombs exploding under the Mercedes, or masked assassins stepping through the bedroom door.

Security no longer permitted dinner and dancing parties at private homes. Social functions and entertaining were conducted at the country club, surrounded by walls and electric fences and helicopter surveillance. Alegría continued to play cards with the other wives three times a week at the club. Some weeks there had not been enough players for five tables because the husbands of some of the women no longer felt their wives were safe driving to the country club. Years before, of course, the women had only met one another in their homes. Iliana’s had been the first generation of women to realize the advantages of luncheon and cards at the country club where the women could drink cocktails, smoke cigarettes, and gossip about in-laws uninhibitedly.

Alegría did not have any illusions. A number of Tuxtla’s best addressees were off-limits for Alegría; and while the wives of the governor and former ambassador might play bridge or canasta with Alegría at the country club, this did not mean she would ever be invited to their homes. At the club, rumors provided the only entertainment. If Alegría missed a Tuesday or a Thursday, she was aware of the former ambassador’s wife and the governor’s wife whispering behind their hands as they watched her. All the talk is about the gringos: U.S. dollars and U.S. equipment are up for grabs. Menardo, the general, and the police chief—they had all had visitors from the United States recently. The former ambassador’s U.S.-born wife watches their three wives suspiciously.

Rumors say United States troops will soon occupy Mexico to help protect U.S.-owned factories in Northern Mexico as well as the rich Mexico City politicians on the CIA payroll since prep school. There are shortages of cornmeal and rioting spreads. Rumors say the richest families have already opened bank accounts and purchased homes “in the North,” which is understood to be San Antonio, San Diego, Tucson, or Los Angeles. Rumors say the refugees fleeing from the South have greatly
increased in number as civil wars ignite in Costa Rica and Honduras. Alegría imagined a map of the world suspended in darkness until suddenly a tiny flame blazed up, followed by others, to form a burning necklace of revolution across two American continents. That was another reason Alegría preferred taxis. Alegría expected the riots eventually to reach Tuxtla, and she preferred to meet rioters in a taxi, and not a Mercedes.

ALEGRÍA HAD BEEN PACKING her bags for a vacation at their beach house at Playa Azul. Menardo had planned to drive her himself to make a second honeymoon before he returned to Tuxtla. Perhaps she might start her painting again if she spent time alone in their lovely beach house above the shimmering Pacific. It would be a paradise where Alegría could take a serious look at herself and her life to assess the threat Bartolomeo may have posed. She daydreamed and ached for the hard thrusts of Sonny Blue; but she knew Sonny would not have built the beach house as she had designed it, the way Menardo had. No costs were too great; Menardo had sent out rush orders to Mexico City for the steel and glass to build her dream hideaway at Playa Azul.

Alegría had wanted to meet Sonny Blue at the beach house, but he had refused despite Alegría’s assurance that Menardo would not suddenly appear and surprise them. The elaborate electronic security alarms would not have permitted such a surprise. Still, Sonny Blue had not wanted to jeopardize business with Menardo or to end up shot dead by the jealous husband either. Alegría realized no man would ever love her or spend his money as freely on her as Menardo had. No matter how lifeless or sexless the marriage was, Alegría knew she was well-off; look at the silks and linens. She felt a great deal of tenderness for Menardo as she packed her new bathing suits and beach caftans with leather sandals to match.

The sound of tires on gravel in the driveway was unfamiliar—too loud, too sudden—as if the car were speeding to a stop. Alegría heard a second car pull up. Her heart began pounding; she glanced at the clock: three-fifteen, Friday afternoon, and something terrible had happened. Alegría felt a strange numbness and tingling in the tips of her fingers and toes; when the downstairs maid knocked and called out at her door, Alegría knew they had killed Menardo.

The general and the police chief had come for her immediately; they had not yet removed the body from the scene, but they had brought the vest, heavy, and still wet with Menardo’s blood. Alegría saw how much they hated her—the general, police chief, and the others. They probably knew about her affair with Sonny Blue. They blamed her for Iliana’s death, and now for Menardo’s. They wanted to rub her face in the blood; she could feel the police chief struggle to control himself. Alegría had burst into tears when she saw the ridiculous vest; it looked too small now for a man such as Menardo. They called it an accident; they had witnessed everything.

Alegría had moved toward the front door, tears running down her cheeks; she fumbled with her purse to find a handkerchief. Her hands were shaking. She wanted to take a gun and kill the Indian before more damage was done. She was furious at Menardo. How many times had she warned him about Tacho? She had never liked Tacho’s Indian friends who came at all hours of the night carrying strange packs and bundles. Bartolomeo had dropped hints about “your husband’s Indian” as he called Tacho; Tacho had a twin brother in the mountains who led Indian guerrilla units. Alegría usually did not trust anything Bartolomeo said, but in the case of Tacho, she had already suspected the truth. Alegría had seen the hatred in Tacho’s eyes; he hated Europeans, pure and simple.

Alegría asked to be driven to the scene to stall for time, and to give the appearance of the grieving widow, though she knew she would fool no one. Tacho was sitting in the Mercedes as if nothing had happened; eyewitnesses, including the general and the police chief, had heard Menardo give Tacho the command to fire. Menardo was lying on his back covered now with his own shirt and suit coat. Alegría approached slowly. Poor silly man! From the moment Menardo had seen the vest, he had been enraptured. But instead of crying, Alegría wanted to laugh. She had sunk to her knees on the ground next to his body and buried her face in both hands, and she had laughed until tears ran down her face; and then she had cried because she knew this was it, this was the end.
The general and the police chief would make a complete investigation. She wept for herself, not the fool Menardo. Menardo had been worth much more to her alive than dead; she did not trust the general or the police chief. The general would want to take control of the company and cheat her out of everything.

Alone in her bedroom, Alegría had called the mortuary, where she was told all arrangements had been made by “friends of the family.” One by one they had come—the former ambassador and the governor, the judge and the doctor, the police chief and the general—the men from the club had paid their respects, but the wives had made excuses, citing security, because they knew it was all over for Alegría in Tuxtla. One by one, the men had clasped her hands between their sweaty palms, and staring into her eyes, each had whispered they were “there for her”—anything she might need. A freak accident! How tragic! Microscopic imperfections in the fabric’s quilting; a bare millimeter’s difference and the bullet would safely have been stopped. The judge and the former ambassador had both suggested filing lawsuits against the vest’s U.S. manufacturer; naturally they wanted to assist her. The police chief had asked what she knew about Tacho. The general had asked if she had trusted Tacho. Alegría lied and told them Tacho was utterly loyal and trustworthy. She needed time, and she did not want the general or the police chief to suspect Tacho and begin a new investigation; she no longer had Menardo to intercept and censor or destroy damaging reports about her past political affiliations. Bless him, Menardo had believed her when she called politics her “ignorant youth”; but the others would never believe her.

BUT IN THE END it had been Bartolomeo who had hated Alegría most—more than the country club wives and Menardo’s business associates. Alegría’s heart had skipped a beat when she saw the driveway littered with handbills. Bartolomeo had lost no time. The handbills had been copied from the front page of the newspaper with the photograph
of Menardo’s body inside a dark circle of his own blood.
This Is How Capitalists Die,
the handbill read.