The Return: A Novel (49 page)

A peculiar expression appeared on her face. Marder thought it was embarrassment. She looked down and her mouth twisted. Then a nervous laugh. “You’re always saving my life, Marder. I’m wondering if this is a good basis for a relationship.”

“We’ll have to see how that works with our extreme sexual attraction,” said Marder lightly, but the remark seemed not to please her.

“Yes, we will, although I hope you’re not turning all Mexican on me. First come little flirty comments like that one, and next you’re squeezing my ass in public and telling all your boyfriends about what I’m like in bed. I’m nobody’s
chingada
, Don Ricardo.”

“Point taken. Although the terror I feel when I think about you would militate against your presumptive
chingadismo
. I’m sure you feel the same.”

“What, you think I’m afraid of you?”

“Yes. A certain underlying fear of the beloved is part of every real romance. Terrible as an army with banners, as the Bible has it. Obviously, women have every right to be frightened of men, but that’s not what I mean. I mean we allow the other to get inside the shell, inside the armor, the—what’s another word?”

“The penetralia.”

“Yes, and a word we don’t hear enough at present. We’re not flirting now, Espinoza, we’re sharing hearts.”

“Yes, and I think you should slow down. I don’t know how much this has to do with the situation; the presence of death makes people do crazy things, and … quite apart from last night, my penetralia are somewhat occluded at present.”

“And tonight? May I expect a visit?”

“Let’s leave that open, shall we? If I’m to do a shake-and-bake documentary of this
locura
you’ve arranged, I have a lot of work to do. But perhaps I will surprise you.
Hasta luego
, Marder.”

She turned and took three steps in the direction of the
colonia,
spun on her heel, walked back, kissed him soundly, and, without another word, went on her way.

Speaking of insanity, thought Marder as he watched her walk away.

*   *   *

It was not all that much of a surprise. It was late, just after two; he’d had to accomplish a thousand small tasks that apparently only
el patrón
could do, settling arguments, allotting resources, chiding, calming, pumping up flagging spirits. He was just letting the sound of the surf lull him to sleep when the door opened without a knock and she came in, wearing only a light silk robe and carrying a laptop case, both of which she dropped at the side of the bed. Without a word, she slipped in beside him and gave him the indescribable, familiar, but evergreen shock of a naked body against his own.

She wanted to be on top, to be in control, and he thought that was fine. She was ungentle, nearly violent, as she ground down and pounded against him, making the bed rattle, and there was a good deal of biting and scratching and bad language.

“Yes, I’m your
chingada
,” he said after.

“Good. See that you don’t forget it.”

He laughed, and she did too and punched him in the ribs as she rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. When she came back, she opened the laptop case, slipped on a pair of reading glasses, and worked on the video she’d shot that day.

He watched her as she worked. He recalled sneaking looks at Chole as she worked in the big studio they’d shared in their loft and he felt the same curious semi-erotic thrill, a voyeurism of the spirit.

She felt his eyes on her and said, “Don’t peek. I can’t stand it when people watch me edit.”

“I was actually enjoying the sight of your nipples jiggling as you pounded the keys. You talk to yourself too, little imprecations and queries. Charming. How is it going?”

“Good. Some nice interviews and a lot of background stuff. Of course, the killer part, so to speak, will be the actual fighting.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing. Not that I looked.”

“Yes, I had to learn video editing on my own. When I bailed out of telenovelas, they made me start as the weather girl in Veracruz. I often wore a bikini, if you can believe it, and for a couple of years I shot stories with friends as crew and sent the videos in to my management and got totally ignored, until I did a political exposé of one of the enemies of the guy who owned the station. That got me the reporter’s job, and then Televisa picked me up for a magazine show out of Defe. And here I am.”

She punched keys for a while, then slammed her finger down on the save button and copied to a thumb drive.

Holding the tiny thing up, she said, “I suppose this will be gripped in my teeth as I paddle away. Or in a more intimate cavity.” She snapped the laptop shut and slid it to the floor.

“Speaking of intimate cavities.” She rolled on top of him.

“Eek. Not again.”

“No. I have to get some sleep, and so do you, my Zapata. I just like to lie on top of you. I like a big guy for that purpose.”

In a while they took a break from nuzzling and she said, “You poor doomed man.”

“Perhaps not. Change is always possible.”

“Yes, this is why you’ll never understand Mexico. In my country, politics is tragic, and all our great politicians have been tragic figures, either saints or demons. You, clearly, are one of the saints. But no one expects real change, because the nation reflects the human condition, original sin, call it what you like. There will always be a
chingón
and a
chingada
, and the only question is which men fall into which group. In your country, on the other hand, you believe that change is possible, and so your politics is comic. All your politicians are therefore clowns.”

“It’s a point of view,” said Marder, “although I believe
I’m
enough of a Mexican to have a tragic sense of life. I fell into this situation, you know; I didn’t write a manifesto and come down here to carry it out. I’m obliged to hope for the best, but I’m not a fool. I think death will find me very soon, and,
querida
, my dear heart, I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather spend my last few hours with.”

“You know, you’re always saying things like that. I was struck by it earlier when that kid yelled ‘victory or death,’ and then that crack about swimming off the island, and I said, ‘If I have to, I will.’ Somehow the irony has left the building. I’ve been wondering why.”

Marder’s cell phone rang, the stupid default tone sounding particularly stupid in the circumstances. He left the bed and picked it up, observing that it was just past three a.m.

The caller was El Gordo.

“Well, Don Ricardo, here is your last chance to give me my property back.”

“I’m devastated to have to tell you that my colleague and I have decided that it’s not presently in our interest to do so. My colleague used an American expression: If you want my gun, you’ll have to pry it out of my cold dead hands. How about half a million instead? Dollars.”

“I’m happy to hear that you dispose of such resources. When I have you, and your house, and my property, such knowledge will ease negotiations for your personal release. I earnestly hope that I don’t have to pry anything out of your cold dead hands, although that’s really up to you.
Hasta la vista
, Don Ricardo.”

“That was the Templos, no?”

Marder slipped back into bed. “That was Don Servando himself. He as much as told me he’s coming to get what he thinks we owe him. I don’t see why he shouldn’t attack us tomorrow. I expect he’s been preparing it for a while.”

“I’m trying to think up a witty and insouciant rejoinder, but I’m drawing a blank. We seem to be in an irony-free zone now.”

He wrapped his arms around her smooth, warm back. “Yes, well, irony is no protection when you can feel the breeze from his scythe on your skin and hear the rustle of his wings.”

She turned in his arms so that she was staring into his face, her eyes wide, the pupils black and huge in the dim light. “Holy Mother! My God, you know you’re right too about what you said out on the road before.” She was speaking softly, trying not to let her voice break. “You really do frighten me. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m voluntarily in the path of an entire cartel.
Puerco Dios,
Marder! It’s just now hitting me: we are all going to die, aren’t we?”

“But not you,” he said.

20

“Are you still sleeping?”

There was enough light coming through the windows now to show him her face. He touched her cheek. “Not really. In and out, with unpleasant dreams.”

“Me too. Are you worrying about your daughter?”

“Every second it takes all I have not to jump up and start running around in circles, screaming. But the truth is, I’m actually helpless. Either she’ll be fine or the opposite, and I resign the outcome to God’s hands. It’s one of the advantages of the religious imagination, without which ninety percent of the population of this country would have curled up and died a long time ago.”

“That’s an interesting point of view. Maybe I should interview you right now.”

“You got my famous speech on tape. Let that suffice. I’m not the star of the show. Besides, I’m naked.”

They laughed, and while they were laughing came the frantic knocking on the door and Ariel’s shrill cry. That was the last laugh, thought Marder, as he jumped from the bed and into his pants.

“What,
muchacho
?”

“There are boats coming—a lot of them; a whole army of boats.”

“And Don Esquelly, where is he now?”

“Up on the roof, Señor.”

“Thank you, Ariel. Now go to your post.”

The reporter was up and throwing on her clothing as fast as she could. Marder grabbed a khaki shirt and his shoulder holster, his binoculars, a ball cap, his Steyr rifle, and his huaraches.

“Good luck,
querida
,” he said as he left. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

*   *   *

The air on the roof still held the damp of the night. Peach tones streaked the sky above the eastern mountains; the sea lay in shadows, iron-colored and calm. Skelly was standing by the 12.7-mm emplacement, staring out to sea through his Zeiss glasses.

Marder raised his own binoculars. There was a large fishing trawler lying to about a thousand meters from the beach, accompanied by a substantial yacht, a forty-footer. The trawler was bringing forth smaller craft, a dozen or so by Marder’s count, sliding them efficiently off the rear platform normally used for hauling in loaded nets. They were large Zodiacs, each presumably full of armed men and powered by an outboard engine, but Marder could make out only vague shapes, a duller blackness in the darkness of the sea.

“That’s a pretty professional-looking operation,” Marder observed.

“Yes. El Gordo owns a marina and guide shop, or extorts one. That’s where the boats come from. And his guys tend to be fairly disciplined. Whoops, one boat went over. Well, it happens in the Special Forces too.”

Now came the sound of automatic firing from the shore. Lines of the phosphorescent green tracer favored by the Warsaw Pact flew out toward the trawler.

Skelly cursed and got on his cell phone and chewed out Dionisio Portera, the leader of Charlie platoon. The boats were out of effective range, he said, and told them to wait until he fired a flare before shooting, and, for the love of God, short bursts. When he was off the phone, he had some words with Njaang, the 12.7-mm gunner, who immediately yanked the bolt of his weapon back, sighted the weapon, and pressed the triggers.

The sound was so enormous that Marder instinctively stepped away. At the same time he could hear the other 12.7, the one in the bunker on the golf course, sending enfilading fire into the lines of rubber boats. He saw one boat dissolve in a foamy tangle of rubber strips and red mash and looked away. Skelly grabbed his arm and pointed at the 20-mm rifle, standing on its bipod nearby.

He said, “Shoot some HEI rounds downrange. See if you can annoy the bridge of that trawler,” and returned to studying the invasion through his glasses.

Marder looked through the scope of the 20-mm, shifting slightly to get the bobbing trawler in his sights. Then the whole scene lit up like a movie set. Skelly had shot off his flare, and the machine guns nested above the beach opened up.

Marder fired three rounds of high-explosive incendiary into the trawler’s bridgehouse, starting fires. The boat fell off its station, showing its stern, allowing the 12.7 more play. Through Marder’s rifle scope, everyone on the platform looked dead. The deflated remains of two Zodiacs slopped with the small waves against the trawler’s low stern.

Marder stepped back from his rifle to find himself a scant foot from the lens of Pepa Espinoza’s Sony.

“Is it time for my interview now?”

“No, but I wanted to catch you sinking the invasion armada. Very impressive.”

“I don’t think it’s sinking. It’s a very tiny cannon.”

“But they’re not going to send any more boats in. I need to get down to where the action is.”

She trotted off down the inside stairway. He hoped that she’d stop and turn and come back and kiss him, as she had before, but she did not. He looked out through a gap in the sandbag parapet. The beach was strung with black boats, most of them collapsed, many with dead men inside them, and windrows of corpses lay on the sloping beach, a miniature of the grim photographs of D-day.

The 12.7 mm was silent now; Marder saw that the ammunition box was empty, and the area around it was carpeted with brass and links. But the machine guns below were still firing, and so were the AKs of Charlie platoon—firing far too rapidly, it seemed, for Skelly was once again shouting into his cell phone.

He stuck the thing in his pocket and looked at Marder. “These
pendejos
are going to use up every round on the island in the first five minutes. I was afraid this was going to happen. Look, keep an eye on things up here—I’m going to go down and dance on their heads.”

He vanished. The Hmong loaded another belt into his gun. Around the terrace, the other men clutched their weapons and peered over the parapet, although there was nothing to see. Marder had another look at the trawler through his scope. The wooden bridge was burning merrily and the craft had developed a list. The large yacht had moved out of range. The men on the beach were isolated and couldn’t be resupplied. They’d have to surrender eventually. Could it have been so easy?