The Juror (43 page)

But she only stares down at the black folds of landscape below.

The engines snore along.

Buddy can’t think of a thing to say. He’s never been any good at all at talking to women.

Finally, he tries, “Annie?”

“Yes.”

“So, so tell me.”

“What.”

“Well, tell me, tell me about your kid some more.”

“Like what?” Testiness in her voice.

“Anything. I mean, so what is he like?”

“He’s a child.”

End of interview.

To the east, the arc of the world is starting to carry some light. Some brushed blue, some shoots of crimson. That’s what
we need all right, thinks Buddy—but you better hurry it up over there. I ain’t landing this wreck in the dark.

Then he sees it.

A thimble-scoop of white light down on the carpet of blackness below.

He points. “You see that?”

“What.”

“Right there. You see that light? It’s a car. It’s headlights.”

She says, “
Him?
”

“At this hour? In these mountains? Ain’t nobody else. Yeah, it’s him.”

She’s suddenly nervous, excited. She says, “What are we going to do?”

He shrugs. “What do you mean? This old bird’s going as fast—”

“But can’t we go
down
there? Can’t we stop him?”

“Stop him how?”

“Can’t we, can’t we—I don’t know, can’t we drop something on him?”

“Drop what?”

“Or I’ll shoot him,” she says. “You fly over him and I’ll shoot him. Through the roof of his car.” She picks up the pistol
from her lap.

“He’s in a ravine, Annie. He’s halfway up one side of a ravine, that’s where the road goes. I could never get down there,
and if I could? You could never hit him.”

“All right,” she says.

“I mean, what is that, a thirty-eight? If you had a rifle. If you were a marksman. If I could get down there—”

“All
right
,” she says sharply.

Then a minute later she says, “I’m sorry. I know, you’re right. I can see him but I can’t stop him. I know. It’s clear. How
long to T’ui Cuch?”

“Well, you know we can’t land right in the valley. I told you that.”

“I know.”

“There’s a ridge on the west, sort of a road there, way up above the town. I’ll try to land there. If I can even find it.
Then we have to walk down from there.”

“To run.”

“Yeah, to run, but still it’s a long way.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. It’s all downhill, at least there’s that.”

For a few minutes, nothing in his ears but the engines.

Then she says, “Do you want me to talk about my child? About Oliver?”

“Oh, that’s OK.”

“I can’t.”

“I understand. It’s OK.”

She says, “That investigator I told you about—once he asked me what was in my head.
In my bead
. I told him I was thinking about Oliver. About nothing but Oliver. But that wasn’t true. That was a lie. The truth is, I
haven’t been thinking about Oliver at all. When I’m with him, I try not to even look at him. And when I’m not with him, every
time he comes into my head I turn away. Turn my thoughts away. I think about something else. I keep everything dark in my
head. Do you want me to think about him?”

“No, really, I didn’t mean—”

“How can I think about my child? If I think about my child, I’ll think about my child being killed. If I think about that,
it’ll split me open. If I love him, even if I just
love
him, that’ll split me open. I don’t love him. I don’t keep that around. You want to know what I keep around?”

“If you—”

“Hate. That’s all. That’s all I think about. Those headlights down there, that little light of his down there, it’s about
the size of a beetle, isn’t it? I think I could reach down in the dark and find it, that’s all I have to do, grope around
in the dark till I find it and squeeze it, crush him to death. You know what? You know what I just realized? I don’t care
whether he kills my child or not. You know? I don’t love my child, there’s nothing left of my child inside my head anyway,
so what do I care?”

“Hey, Annie, stop. That’s not true—”

“Shut up. What right do you have to tell me what’s true? Or what’s not true. What do I care what’s true or not. I just want
to kill him. That’s all I want to do, just kill him and kill him and kill him. Please, get there, land this plane.”

“Soon.”

“Land us.”

“We will.”

“He wants to see me holding the body of my son, why should I do that? It’s just a body, why should I hold it up for him? I
won’t, I will not. I’ll hold
his
body, that fucker, I’ll hold him up and I’ll eat his heart, please, will you go faster, will you get there, will you land
this thing, please! I just want to eat that man’s heart! He can kill all the children he wants, that’s fine with me, let him
kill, kill Oliver? I don’t even
know
Oliver, let him! Let him kill, let him, if he wants to kill let him kill but when he’s done I want to eat his heart. Do you
understand?
I want to eat that man’s heart!
Please! I WANT TO EAT THAT MAN’S HEART! PLEASE! DON’T FLY ANY MORE! GET THERE! LAND THIS!”

T
HE TEACHER
, at the first light of dawn, sees a little store by the side of the road, and a light is on. He’s tired, tired of this mud-driving,
and he’s hungry. He pulls over.

Dead silence when he shuts the taxi door.

He looks down the mountain road he just came up. He wishes she were here with him. He hopes she found some transportation.
There won’t be much time after he kills Oliver before the police come. He won’t be able to wait long. She’ll have to hurry.
Hurry, Annie.

Find some way.

The sky is utterly clear and filling up with light the way a sail fills up with wind.

He thinks of the morning when Lao Tsu left his
Book of the Way
with the Royal Gatekeeper, and walked out of China forever.

He steps inside the store.

There’s a table and three Mayans having breakfast. They make room for him. He has eggs with salsa, and mutton stew and tortillas,
and sweet sweet coffee. The coffee is so sweet it makes him laugh.

He says to the men, “
Hay una fiesta hoy? En T’ui Cuch?
”

“
Sí
,” says one. All three of them are drunk as skunks. “
La fiesta
.”

“
Empieza muy temprano?
” the Teacher asks.

“Sí. La carrera. Temprano.”

The race, the T’ui Cuch horse race, they’ll start it bright and early. There will be a crowd, and Oliver will be in it, and
he’ll be easy to find.

A
NNIE
runs from the wrecked airplane, runs in the rose light of daybreak across the barren black potato field till she comes to
the field’s edge and looks down the steep cliffside.

Below, far, swaddled in mist, the village.

“It’s too far,” she says.

Buddy hobbles up beside her. “Fucked my knee up,” he says. “My knee, my plane, my whole life, fucked.”

“Hours. It’ll take hours.”

“We’re just nothin but fucked,” says Buddy.

Annie turns. A small crowd of Mayans have gathered in the potato field. Some of them gawk at the wrecked plane, some of them
gawk at Annie.

One of them is a boy on a gray horse.

The boy is wearing a gaudy riding jacket. His hair has been braided and ornamented with long rainbow scarves.

Annie asks Buddy, “That boy? Why is he dressed like that?”

“For the fiesta. I expect he’s gonna ride in the horse race today.”

“What horse race?”

“In T’ui Cuch. Some kind a horse race. I don’t know.”

“Will you ask him something for me?” says Annie.

“Yeah,” says Buddy.

“Will you ask him if his horse is a fast horse?”

T
HE TEACHER
lingers at the little store. He buys himself a nice wool coat with the pattern of a bat on its back, and he buys himself
a small wooden representation of the local black saint, San Simón.

Then he asks the three men at the table, who are just finishing their sweet coffees, “
Quieten ir conmigo? A T’ui Cuch. Tengo un auto
.”

They confer among themselves.

“Sí. Gracias, señor.”

They all get into the taxi.

One of the men hands him a bottle of the local white lightning. The Teacher takes a swig, and his eyes water and the men laugh.
A festive atmosphere in this taxicab, and every moment is chiseled into his mind’s eye and into his memory. They ride up over
the mountain and down into the valley of T’ui Cuch.

When they come into town he drives carefully around the loose chickens and the sleeping drunks and the families that are heading
into the market where the horse race will begin. He finds a place to park, and says farewell to his passengers. He salutes
the village policeman, who is barely able to stand. He walks briskly into the market.

Cacophony of marimbas and trumpets, and the church bell is tolling. The dusty trees are crowded with boat-tailed grackles,
who are all screeching at once, and children are screeching with them. A costumed dance is under way. Looks as though it’s
been going on all night, the dancers stumbling and shuffling. And in the soccer field the horses are gathering, and the men
are dragging them by the reins and swearing at them. Oh, it’s all noisy and colorful, and perhaps charming if it were some
other occasion. If he were coming here as a tourist, coming with Annie and Oliver for example, a gringo family gawking at
the local grotesqueries—then all this nonsense wouldn’t irritate him so much. But what he wants now is silence. He wants solemn
clarity. He wants a revelation of pattern. He wants the world to be as clean and simple as that sky up there.

A ragged boy approaches him with a tray of boiled peanuts. “
Maníes? No quiere maníes, joven?
”

He smiles. “
Sí, por favor
.”

He buys a bag, and gives the boy a five-quetzal tip.

And while the child is still blinking at it, the Teacher asks him, “
Conoce un mucbacho, un gringo, se llama Oliver?
”

“Oh-levar? Sí. El gringito? Sí, sí.”

“Y dónde está?”

“
Ahorita?
” The boy scans the market, looking for Oliver. He raises his eyes to the steep hillside. Suddenly he points. “
Oh-levar
,” he says.

A knot of five boys, on a street overlooking the market. Looking down at the field of horses. Oliver not apparent. But two
of the boys wear masks and gaudy robes. One’s a horned bull, the other a long-faced deer.

One of the unmasked boys waves a shirt, and the bull paws the ground with his feet and then rushes that rag.

“
Yo no puedo verlo
,” says the Teacher.

“
Está allí
,” says the boy. “
El Toro
.”

The boy-matador wheels, and the bull wheels with him, around and around, then dizzily cartwheels into the dust. Slowly picks
himself up. Lifts up his mask. It is Oliver. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and laughs and replaces the mask and he’s
the bull again.

The peanut seller shouts, “
Oh-levar!
”

But fortunately the marimbas and the church bells and the grackles drown out his call. Oliver doesn’t hear, doesn’t turn.

“
Por favor
,” says the Teacher. He puts a hand on the peanut vendor’s shoulder. “
Mi visita… es una… sorpresa
.”

The kid shrugs. “OK.”

Now the bull and the deer separate from the other boys. They start to ascend the hillside, climbing a long earthen stairway.

“
A dónde van?
” the Teacher asks.

The kid shrugs again. “
No sé. Probablamente a las ruinas
.”

He points to the crumbling carcass of a stone church, high up on the hillside.

“
Gracias
,” murmurs the Teacher. “That’s perfect.”

He winds through the milling throng, crosses the marketplace, hurries up to the long stairway. This he climbs. Quick strides.
Up through a narrow space between two thatch cottages. He looks over the palings of a whittled-sapling fence into a garden,
where a woman is weaving at a backstrap loom. Her young daughter squats beside her. The woman smiles, and the Teacher smiles
back. He holds up his bag of peanuts, and tosses it to the girl, and nimbly she catches it. He wishes Annie were with him.
He climbs on.

The stairway meets a road that zigzags up the steep hill. When he looks up he catches another glimpse of the bull and the
deer.

The mask, that’s wrong. That mask is clutter. I want to see your face, Oliver. Your open clear face.

But still the Teacher is content, because he can feel the power gathering. The wild din of the market is fading, the shape
of the valley is showing itself. He likes the geometric Jacob’s-ladder structure of this road. He likes to think of the measured
distance between himself and Oliver, the distance that grows a bit shorter with every one of his long strides. He climbs higher,
passes through a huddle of thatched homes and comes to a clearing.

Again he spots Oliver.

Though it’s just for a moment, as the boy trudges between dry corn fields. This time he’s alone. His friend the deer must
have gone home, must live in one of these houses. There are only the two of us now. Simpler and simpler.

Only the one child and the one man climbing dutifully to the meeting-place.

The Teacher hastens his steps. A little impatient now, eager, can’t help it. He trots through the corn patches and through
an orchard and out into an open field. Just above him is the ruins of the church. Oliver has paused. He’s standing on an old
ruined retaining wall of the church, and he’s looking out at the view. The Teacher supposes that the child has noticed him,
but with that mask it’s hard to tell.

Anyway it doesn’t matter, he’s never seen my face, he won’t recognize me. To him I’m just another gringo tourist in a hurry
to visit the church.