The Laughing Falcon (38 page)

Into the falling evening came the call of the nightjar: “Chup-chup,
weer!”
She pressed her hands to her ears.

Maggie spent the following day trying to pretend she was not at all rattled, substituting false gaiety for the confusion she felt. She laughed too loudly during Buho’s Spanish lesson when Glo’s teasing made him blush. She avoided looking at Halcón for fear she would turn a brighter red.

Afterwards, Buho played sad tunes on his guitar as Glo, taking her turn outside, danced, languid and graceful, to his music. Halcón was with her on the patio, shuffling his cards, again in brooding thought. It seemed odd that he so casually ignored Glo’s displays of physical attributes; likely, he found her abrasive, lacking the old-fashioned femininity that Latin men preferred.

She had not mentioned to Glo that she had practically offered her body to Halcón, and did not wish to hear more stern advice from her. Of recent, Glo, too, had been acting strangely: wistful, lost in thought, almost as uncommunicative as Halcón.

When it became Maggie’s turn to join Halcón outside, she declined with a careless wave of her hand. “I need to sweep up around here; this place is starting to look like an ant nest.” She wielded a broom for a while, but continued to feel awkward in his presence.

She fled to the kitchen, where she had promised to show Tayra how to make perogies. She flew into the task, and, to keep her thoughts from wandering dangerously down to the banks of the Naranjo, peppered her with questions about Central America’s Caribbean coast, the culture of its people. Suddenly she found herself weeping.

“I think, young lady, you are in trouble.”

Everyone knew.

“It is a kind of
tamal?”
Buho asked, inspecting one of the perogies.

“What is in them?” Benito said, poking at them with his fork.

“Benito, yours came out of the same pot as the others,” Maggie said.

All but Coyote, who was taking a turn at the gate, were eating from their laps around the television set, waiting for the
news. Jorge Castillo, the security minister, had called a press conference for this evening.

“This is a great delicacy,” said Buho. “It is the
plato típico
of Saskatchewan?”

“Not really.” Maggie held her eyes to the set, concentrating on a commercial: a Tico version of Honest Brod Kipling at a display of Toyotas.

Benito was still staring at his plate. “In La Reforma, they put fluorides in my food.”

“We do
not
put fluorides in the perogies,” Maggie said.

There came a groan from Buho as an older man in a business suit glowered at them from the screen.
“Mi padre.”

It was the fourth time they had seen Tomás Bolaños on television. This was yet another plea from Buho’s wealthy father to his son to end his foolishness. Señor Bolaños had the appearance of one who was scornful of dreamy romantics, who might think his guitar-playing son was not capable of entering the hard world of business.

“Again he says he loves me and wants me back.” Buho spoke with a strangled voice. “He says he will get me the best lawyers.”

His eyes had filmed over; Maggie could not think of a way to comfort him. But Benito stood and patted him on the shoulder. “He is a bourgeois philistine, my brother-in-law,” he said.

The announcer apologized: the security minister’s press conference had been delayed but would soon be presented live.

“What are they up to?” Halcón muttered.

“I will not listen to the lies of these puppets of the state.” Benito stalked to his room with his plate.

As filler before the press conference, Canal Siete showed a video clip of Senator Walker accepting flowers from a five-year-old girl, hugging her, then marching briskly to a parked helicopter. Buho translated the voice-over: “Though Senator Walker is leading in the New Hampshire primary, he has sworn to stay in Costa Rica in his relentless hunt for the leftist
terrorists, and here we see the senator joining in, as he has every day.”

Now Chuck Walker was in close-up by the open portal of the aircraft, speaking Spanish through a lapel-clip microphone. “He is saying that if we hurt Glo in any way he will pursue us to the ends of the earth.” Now Walker spoke in English: “My darling, if you are anywhere that you can see or hear this, I swear to you upon my dying breath I will bring you home safely.” He jumped into the helicopter and its propellers began to whirl. He saluted from the window.

Glo saluted back, poker-faced.

“I also will protect you,” Buho said tautly. “Here finally is Castillo.” The minister was behind a wide desk arrayed with microphones; he appeared ruffled and red of face, as if he had just been in a quarrel.

Buho summarized: “He is saying the Comando Cinco de Mayo has been taken in by our captain, and the public should not be fooled the same way.”

Halcón cut him off, rising. “There is nothing new here. They know what our terms are.”

“Yes, Halcón, but he is talking about … who is Johnny Diego?” Buho showed consternation as a head-and-shoulders photo of Halcón was inset onto the screen: unshaven, loose tie, jaunty smile — it had the look of a mug shot.

Halcón angrily switched off the set, cursing in Spanish, then making a fervent speech seemingly in defence of himself while accusing the government of slandering him. Maggie had never seen him in such a hot temper.

Later, while doing the dishes, Maggie and Glo watched Halcón in animated conversation with Buho, Zorro, and Tayra at the far end of the house. Benito remained outside the circle, watching them skeptically, as if witnessing the hatching of a new conspiracy.

Clearly, Halcón had been identified; his true name was Johnny Diego. What had the minister been saying that had
caused him to become so wrathful? From what Maggie could make out, Halcón was cancelling television privileges; he was instructing Tayra and Zorro to remove the set to the bodega.

Halcón came to the kitchen to pour himself a coffee, calmer now, but his smile strained. “They are truly desperate. They have made up crazy stories about me, claiming I have a long criminal history. That way, they try to divide us.”

“As a result, we are united as never before,” said Buho, standing behind his leader.

“What stories?” Glo was smiling, an eyebrow raised.

Buho laughed. “They say he is a dishonest lawyer who has been in jail. Our captain! With this scandal, they try to win back public support. They know lawyers are hated in Costa Rica.”

Now Maggie understood Halcón’s fury: Operación Libertad had concocted a clever scheme, an attempt to isolate Halcón, to plant seeds of distrust within his ranks and stem the tide of sympathy for the guerrillas.

Just then, the roof began to rattle, the metal chimes sounding, the crystals swaying. Maggie started, and thought of running for cover. But the earthquake was minor, and after a few moments all was still.

“The gods are uneasy,” Halcón said. “Maybe it is a message, a warning.”

They spent the remains of the evening in nervous anticipation of the next shudder. Maggie had already experienced several; they usually came in series. But though no aftershocks occurred, somewhere a power line must have snapped; the house grew dark with the coming of night. The flickering of candlelight made the house seem eerie; Buho’s doleful guitar plucking was not raising spirits or lessening the tension in the air. Glo had gone upstairs, and, thankfully, Benito had settled into bed, while Halcón, now relegated to a mattress in the main room, sat on the staircase, smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes.

Maggie suppressed the impulse to go to him, to touch his face and soothe the lines from his brow. What could be troubling him so deeply? Not the government’s slanders, which seemed too obvious a ploy to have plunged him into such gloom.

He might well be thinking of her, perhaps regretting having spurned her. The likelihood that he shared her feelings seemed more compelling the more she thought about it. That he was undergoing such inner battle gave him credit; an ignoble man would surrender to lust.

As she climbed the stairs to her room, he touched her ankle, startling her. “About the matter yesterday,” he said softly, “I was complimented. In normal times I might have responded with too much eagerness … but these are not normal times.”

“Thank you. I understand.”

That was enough for him to say, more than enough. She felt her way up the stairs in the darkness, almost tripped on Tayra’s bedding, made a tangle-footed entrance into her room.

A candle was burning on Maggie’s writing table, and Glo was seated at it, smiling as Maggie made her noisy arrival. “Do you reckon the delivery man is in on it, or did the Throb con him, too?”

“Excuse me?”

“Jericho, Elmer Jericho. The walls don’t come tumbling down, because I still can’t remember where I heard that name. Anyway, what do you think about our Johnny Diego? I mean, isn’t that a stitch? He’s the flim-flam man, he surely is.”

“Glo, did you actually swallow that? Don’t be so naïve.”

That caused Glo to burst into laughter. “Who,
me?
Oh, honey, you are a caution. You’ve got to be the sweetest, most innocent thing since the Lord made puppy dogs.” She held a cigarette to the candle, then stuck it between her teeth, grinning. “He’s a clip artist. He conned everybody, took off their shoes and socks without their knowing it. Oh, yeah, the great freedom fighter — closest he’s been to a revolution is watching clothes in a dryer.”

Maggie understood Glo’s stratagem: she was trying to poison her against Halcón and cause a rupture between them. She was not offended; Glo had her best interests at heart.

“All those home movies he’s been producing for you, about his thrilling life: what bullshit. I’ve seen some real sharks in action, working the rubes from Des Moines in the casinos, but this guy surely is the all-time home-run king. Also got balls like an elephant.”

Maggie laughed lightly, humouring her.

“Maggie, you forget? This is a guy who had his fingers in your fucking fanny pack while his tongue was in your mouth.”

Maggie would not let such grossness upset her. From somewhere outside came the bell-like call of a tink frog – how she loved that sound: first heard the night Halcón unveiled himself, when he told her she was
valiente
.

“He’s a no-limit poker player, honey, I know this guy. He won six hundred grand and he’s throwing it in their face, calling them. I kind of sassed him out when he caught me slipping a card from the bottom of the deck. That takes quick eyes and a lot of experience at doing the same. He’s a bodacious sting artist.”

“Well, does that turn you on?”

“Yeah, gets me
real
hot. Baby, baby, bonk your head on something, loosen up the brain. He’s not the one for you. You don’t want to introduce him to your folks. You’re not going to be showing him around the farm at Lake Lenore. He ain’t interested.”

That was brutal, and Maggie had to still her temper. She had not been rendered totally blind by her feelings; she was aware of her situation, and moreover had few expectations.

“Even if some of what they said on the TV is the truth, it’s a warped truth. Sure, he’s been in jail – he told me that himself. He’s a social activist; one time they arrested him for leading a demonstration, and they beat him afterwards. You don’t really know him, and I think you’re just a little jealous. He’s been very
sincere with me and enjoys my company; I’m sorry if that bothers you. He told me yesterday he was confused by his feelings for me.”

“Oh, Maggie.”

Maggie struggled up from her hammock to watch the cumulous clouds billowing toward the Darkside, fully headed, distended with their watery burden. There had been no rain for two weeks, so its coming would be a respite from ceaseless daytime heat.

Glo was taking her turn outside, performing sit-ups near Halcón’s table; she seemed more graceful and feline each day, every unnecessary ounce trimmed from hips and thighs. But Halcón, as usual, was showing not even a bored interest in her. Staring up at the brooding sky, he was agonizingly beautiful in silhouette, his expression soft and dream-like.

Over the last three days, the intoxication of love had begun to manifest itself in troublesome ways as Maggie swung between periods of paralysis, then of uncontrollable energy. She would storm through the house with mop and scrub brush, then wander about with her pad, writing words that did not make sense. Where was the bliss they claimed was love’s avid companion?

She avoided Halcón as if he were a man with a deadly contagion, fleeing to her room when he was about, taking her turns outside with Buho, Coyote, or Tayra. Halcón, in turn, respected her need for distance and found fewer occasions to consult her; it was apparent to him, to all, that Maggie had gone emotionally overboard.

Glo had stopped trying to bring her to her senses, though she continued to disparage Halcón: he was a slick shyster, this Johnny Diego, without conscience. Maggie hotly defended
him: the charges against him were false – that is how the state isolates troublemakers.

“Good lord, it’s the invasion of the body snatchers,” Glo said. “You’re beginning to sound like Buho.” Glo had been looking somewhat blank-eyed herself of late, less ebullient — but the tension of waiting for Cardinal to return with a response from Operación Libertad was causing strain to everyone.

“Without the house keys, he is nothing,” said Benito, who had sidled up to her and was squinting at Halcón over the rims of his glasses. Maggie had succeeded so well in her efforts to befriend him that she had won the role of honourary coconspirator. “He is afraid to be exposed as a fraud; that is why the television was removed. Only he, the usurper, is permitted to hear the radio.”

But Maggie could appreciate Halcón’s point of view: the government had taken a sly offensive, a propaganda blitz intended to divide and discredit Cinco de Mayo. “Let them think we are listening to this nonsense,” he had said.

Glo was standing outside by the table, trying to interest Halcón in a game of casino, but he shrugged her off, still sky-gazing. “There is something going on between them,” Benito said. “I can see this by the way they avoid to look at each other. How can you be sure she is your friend?”